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Title: The soldier's orphans

Author: Ann S. Stephens

Release date: March 4, 2025 [eBook #75522]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: T. B. Peterson, 1866

Credits: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SOLDIER'S ORPHANS ***

Transcriber’s Note:

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

THE
SOLDIER’S ORPHANS.

BY

MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS.

AUTHOR OF “THE GOLD BRICK,” “FASHION AND FAMINE,” “MARY DERWENT,” “THE OLD HOMESTEAD,” “THE REJECTED WIFE,” “THE HEIRESS,” “WIFE’S SECRET,” “SILENT STRUGGLES.”

Philadelphia:

T. B. PETERSON AND BROTHERS;

306 CHESTNUT STREET.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by

MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS,

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, in and for the Southern District of New York.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I. | PAGE
A Friend in Need | 21
CHAPTER II.
Preparing for the Fair | 41
CHAPTER III.
The Old Maid | 52
CHAPTER IV.
The Fair | 61
CHAPTER V.
An Unexpected Performer | 75
CHAPTER VI.
The Soldier’s Death | 88
CHAPTER VII.
The Uncle Fleeced | 97
CHAPTER VIII.
Brave Young Hearts | 109
CHAPTER IX.
The Newsboy | 121
CHAPTER X.
Robert Gets a Situation | 127
CHAPTER XI.
An Intruder | 134
CHAPTER XII.
An Eccentric Drive | 148
CHAPTER XIII.
An Unexpected Meeting | 155
CHAPTER XIV.
Love and Malice | 171
CHAPTER XV.
A Hard-hearted Villain | 195
CHAPTER XVI.
The Trail of the Serpent | 206
CHAPTER XVII.
A New Light | 220
CHAPTER XVIII.
A New Acquaintance | 231
CHAPTER XIX.
A Declaration of Love | 248
CHAPTER XX.
A Bold Stroke for a Husband | 265
CHAPTER XXI.
A Hungry Heart | 279
CHAPTER XXII.
A Mysterious Appointment | 289
CHAPTER XXIII.
An Engagement | 297
CHAPTER XXIV.
Conclusion | 315

THE SOLDIER’S ORPHANS.

CHAPTER I.
A FRIEND IN NEED.

God help the poor who have ever known the refinements of comfort! God help that little family, for it had been driven first from comfortable apartments, where many a tasteful object had rendered home cheerful, to the garret rooms of a poor house in one of the most neglected streets of Philadelphia. Upward, from story to story, those helpless ones had been forced by that hard task master poverty, till they found shelter at last under the very roof. Their attic had only one window, a small dormer one, which looked out upon stacks of chimneys, grouped like black sentinels huddled over uneven roofs, and down upon yards full of broken barrels, old fragments of sheet-iron, scraps of oil-cloth, piles of brick and broken stoves, rusted lengths of refuse pipe, and all the odds and ends which scores of poverty-stricken families had cast forth from their dwellings. Above these, from window to window, swinging high in the wind, lines, heavy with wet clothes, were fluttering dismally, giving forth a sudden rush of sound now and then like broken-winged birds making wild efforts to fly.

This was the scene upon which that quiet old woman looked, as she sat in a low chair close by the window. Not a scrap of green—not a tree-bough broke the coarse monotony when her eyes turned earthward. But it was near sunset, and over the house-tops came a flood of burning light, bronzing the chimneys and scattering rich scintillations of gold on the roofs; and this poor old woman smiled thoughtfully as she saw it, praising God in her heart that he gave the glory of sunset and of the dawn alike to the poor and the rich. She was a plain, simple, pleasant-faced old woman, with a cap of soft, white muslin, harmonizing sweetly with the hair folded back from her forehead, white as snow, and soft as floss silk. Her dress, an old brown merino, had been darned and patched, and turned in all its breadths more than once; but it was so neat and fitted her dainty old figure so perfectly, that you could not help admiring it. Over this she wore an old-fashioned kerchief, cut from some linen garment, which lay in folds across her bosom, like the marble drapery sculptured around a statue.

The old woman had her spectacles on, and her withered fingers were busy with a child’s shoe. They trembled a good deal, and seemed scarcely able to force her needle through the tough leather, which broke away from her stitches with crisp obstinacy. Still she toiled on, striving to close a great rent in the side of the shoe, till a stronger pull at the thread tore the leather half across the instep, and rendered her task utterly hopeless. That good old creature dropped the shoe to her lap, sighed heavily, and, turning her eyes on the sunset, softened into patient composure.

Just then two boys, the elder ten, the younger, perhaps, seven years of age, came into the room very softly—for those bare feet made no noise on the floor—each carrying a quantity of freshly-opened oyster-shells in his arms. The two children sat down in a corner of the room, and began to sort over the shells with eager haste.

“Here is one—here is one!” whispered the elder boy; “not so very small either. Get me a knife.”

The little fellow went to a pine table close by, took a broken case-knife from the drawer, and ran back with it to his brother, who held a huge oyster-shell in his hand, to which was attached a tolerably sized oyster still unopened. The elder boy snatched at the knife, beat the oyster open, and, pressing the shell back, lifted it greedily toward his lips; but when he caught the wistful look of his half-famished brother, the generous child withdrew the morsel slowly from his mouth, and gave it up to the two little, eager hands held forth to receive it. The moment his fingers closed on the shell, this little hero sprang away with it to his grandmother’s side.

“Here, grandma, grandma! take it quick—take it quick!” he cried, breathless, with a spirit of self-sacrifice that might have honored a strong man.

The grandmother turned her mild, brown eyes on the little, famished face uplifted so eagerly to hers, and, understanding all the heroism expressed there, gently shook her head, while a sweet, patient smile crept around her lips.

“Eat it yourself, Joseph,” she said, patting him on the shoulder with her withered hand. “There is only a mouthful, and you are the youngest.”

“No, no, grandma! It is for you—for you.”

“Hollo, I have found another, two, three—one apiece; and another left for Anna, when she comes in. Eat away, grandma, there is enough for all. That man who keeps the stand at the corner is a famous fellow; he threw them in, I’ll be bound.”

Little Joseph thrust the open oyster into his grandmother’s hand, cut a caper with his bare feet, and rushed back to the pile of shells in hot haste.

“Save the biggest for Anna,” he shouted; “don’t touch that.”

With that the two children huddled themselves down among the shells; and Robert, the elder, opened the two oysters that fell to their portion with great ostentation, as if he delighted in prolonging his pleasure by anticipation.

“Now,” he said, “eat slow and get the whole taste. It isn’t every day that we get a treat like this.”

Joseph did his best to obey, but the greed of protracted hunger made short work with his morsel. Still he smacked his lips and made motions with his mouth, as if enjoying the treat long after it was devoured.

“Now,” said Robert, “let’s build a bridge across the hearth; or a railroad, or something worth while.”

“A bridge—a pontoon bridge, such as Anna told us of when father’s regiment crossed that river. Every oyster-shell shall be a boat, and the hearth shall be a river; and—and—but there comes Anna, walking so tired, I know it by her step. Open that other oyster, Robert, for she hasn’t tasted a mouthful since yesterday; be quick.”

Robert seized his knife, and was using it vigorously when his sister Anna came in, pale, weary, and so dispirited, that the heaviness of utter despair seemed upon her.

“Oh, grandmother! she is not at home. I have not been able to collect one cent. What shall we do?”

The young girl flung herself on a chair by the table, and, covering her face, began to cry very noiselessly, but in the deep bitterness of distress. “Not one cent, grandma, and I worked so hard.”

The old lady arose from her place by the window, where the sunset had kindled up her meek face like a picture, and went quietly up to the weeping girl.

“Don’t cry, Anna,” she said, smoothing the hair back from her granddaughter’s forehead. “We have all had a little of something; and to-morrow will be a new day. I suppose the lady is busy about the fair.”

“But I had depended on it so thoroughly,” sobbed the girl, looking drearily at the oyster-shells scattered on the hearth. “I had promised the boys such a supper, and now all is emptiness; their poor, bare feet, how cold they look!”

“But we are not cold, we rather like it,” cried Robert, forcing a laugh through the tears that quivered in his voice. “Arn’t we learning to be tough against the time that drummer-boys will be wanted?”

Anna smiled so drearily that Robert had no heart to go on. The old lady bent over her granddaughter and asked, in a whisper, if any thing else had happened. Anna was not a girl to give way like that for a single disappointment, dark as the hour was for them; and the old woman knew it.

“There has been a battle. Extras are out, but I had no money to buy one,” Anna replied, in a broken whisper. “He may be dead!”

“No, no; don’t say that,” pleaded the old woman, retreating to her chair. “God help us! We could not bear it!”

Robert listened keenly; the knife dropped from his hand; his very lips were white. He crept toward the door and darted down stairs. Flight after flight he descended at a sharp run, and then dashed into the street. No newsboy ever hoped for custom in that neighborhood; but around a far distant corner he saw one passing with a bundle of papers under his arm. With the speed of a deer Robert leaped along the pavement, shouting after the newsboy as he went. His cry, so shrill and desperate, arrested the lad, who paused for his customer to come up.

“Oh I give me a paper!—give me a paper! My father was in the battle!” cried Robert, shaking from head to foot under the force of his anxiety.

“All right,” answered the sharp boy—“all right; ten cents, and hurry up.”

“I haven’t got the money; but my father was in the battle, and my sister is breaking her heart to know——”

“Hand over a five, then, and be quick.”

“I haven’t got a single cent; but my father is a soldier.”

“Nary a red, ha! and keeping me like this. Oh! you get out. Business is business, and sogers is sogers; a fellow can’t let his heart wear holes in his jacket.”

“But I want it so—I want it so.”

The boy tore himself away from Robert’s feeble grasp, and went on shouting lustily for new customers, leaving the soldier’s son shivering in the street, his eyes full of tears, and his heart aching with pain. Robert stood a moment looking wistfully at the newspapers flitting away from him, and in his disappointment formed a new resolution.

When his sister went out that morning, she had mentioned the name and address of a lady, celebrated for her energy in all charitable associations, and who was now the leading spirit of a grand fair for the benefit of the soldiers, which was soon to occupy fashionable attention.

This lady might be at home. She owed his sister money for fancy articles made up for this fair. He would go and ask for enough to give them food; at any rate, to get a paper, which might tell how bravely his father’s regiment had fought.

Again the boy started off at a rapid run, and now his course lay toward that part of the city which seems so far lifted above all the cares and privations of life that it is little wonder the poor are filled with envy when they creep out of their alleys and garrets to behold its splendor. They little know how many cares and heartaches may be found even in this favored quarter; and it is not remarkable that the outward contrast presented to them should often engender bitter feelings, and even intense hatred.

The boy had none of these thoughts. He was only eager to get food for those he loved, and hear news that might bring smiles back to the lovely face of his sister. He was naturally sensitive, and not long ago his father had been among the most prosperous and respectable of the working classes. At another time his naked feet and worn cap, which but half concealed the bright waves of his hair, might have checked his ardor, and sent him cowering back to the concealment of his garret-home. Now he forgot the chill that penetrated his feet from the cold pavement, and went on his way, resolute to save his sister from the sorrow that had wounded him to the heart.

“She hates to ask these grand people for her money,” he thought. “I will do it for her. It is a man’s place to take the brunt; and when father is fighting for his country, I must try to be man enough to act as he did.”

With these thoughts, Robert mounted the marble steps of a spacious white mansion, whose walls were like petrified snow, and whose windows were each a broad sheet of crystal limpid as water. Robert’s cold feet left their tracks on the pure marble, as he mounted the steps, and his little hand drew the silver knob with breathless terror when he rang the bell.

A mulatto servant opened the door, saw the lad shivering outside the vestibule, and drew back in a fit of sublime indignation.

“How dare you? What brings you here?” he exclaimed, eyeing the lad with august scorn. “This is no place for vagrants or beggar-boys——”

“I—I am not a beggar-boy; and I don’t think I am the other thing. If you please, I want to see the lady,” said the boy, resolutely.

“The lady! What lady can you have any thing to do with?” demanded the servant.

“Mrs. Savage, I think that is her name.”

“Who told you that? What do you want of Mrs. Savage?”

“I want some money.”

“Yes, I thought as much. Now tramp, I tell you; and next time you come to a gentleman’s house, learn to go to the back gate.”

“But no, no; pray don’t shut the door. My sister has done work for the lady, and——”

“Very likely. Mrs. Savage is very likely to owe money to any one. My young friend your story is getting richer and richer. She owe you money, indeed!”

“Indeed—indeed she does.”

“There, there, get out of the way. Don’t you see the young gentleman coming up the steps? Make off with yourself!”

Robert turned, and saw a handsome young man spring out of one of those light wagons sometimes used for riding, in which was a pair of fiery young horses, black as jet, and specked about the chest with flashes of foam. He flung the reins to a groom as he stepped to the pavement and mounted the steps, smiling cheerfully, as if his drive had been a pleasant one.

“What is this? Stop a moment, my boy,” said the young man, as Robert passed him on the steps with angry shame burning in his face. “Did you want any thing? Money to buy shoes with, perhaps; here—here.”

The young man took out his porte-monnaie, and selecting a bank-note from its contents, handed it to the boy.

“No, sir—no, sir. I did not come to beg; though he says I did,” cried the boy, with tears in his eyes.

“Then what did you come for, my boy?”

“The lady in yonder hired my sister to do some work for a fair, and it is that I come about. We need the money so much; and Anna is ashamed to ask for it. She would rather go hungry.”

“What, my mother owes money to a working-girl, who hesitates to ask for it!—that must be from mistake or forgetfulness. Is Mrs. Savage at home, Jared?”

“No, sir,” answered the servant. “She is with the committee, and will be till late.”

The young man turned to Robert again. The boy was watching him with wistful attention. Tears stood in those large blue eyes, and under its glow of new-born hope the face was beautiful. No beggar-boy, immortalized by Murillo, was ever more striking. Young Savage had a kind heart, but his tastes were peculiarly fastidious; and it is doubtful if a common boy, with bare feet and poverty-stricken clothes, could have kept him so long on those marble steps.

“Come,” he said, bending a kindly glance on the lad, “if your home is not far from here, I will go with you and settle this matter.”

The lad hesitated, and cast down his eyes. He was ashamed to take this elegant gentleman into his home, or that his beautiful sister should be found in that place. Young Savage mistook this hesitation for a less worthy feeling. “The boy is a little impostor,” he said to himself. “He has seen my mother go out, and hopes to obtain something by this ridiculous claim. I will unearth the little fox!”

“Come, come,” he said, laughing lightly, “show me the way.”

Robert was a sharp lad, and read something of the truth in that handsome face. He turned at once and went down the steps. Savage followed him, interested in spite of himself, and half amused at the idea of ferreting out a deception. Robert did not speak, but looked back, now and then, as he turned a corner, to be sure that the gentleman was following him. The face of young Savage grew more and more serious, as he passed deeper into the neighborhood where low shanties, and high, barren-looking tenement-houses were crowded together. He passed whole families huddled together in the entrance to some damp basement, cold as it was, craving the fresh air that could not be found within. Groups of reckless children, happy in spite of their visible destitution, were playing in the twilight, which filled the poverty of the street with a golden haze, such as heaven alone lends to the poor. The sight pained him, and he grew thoughtful.

“Here is the place, sir,” said Robert, pausing at the door of a tall, bleak building, crowded full of windows that turned coldly to the north. “If you please, I will run up first and tell them you are coming.”

“No, no, that will never do,” answered Savage. “I shall lose my way along this railway of stairs.”

Robert saw that he was still suspected, and began to mount the stairs without a pretext. Up and up he went, followed by the young man, till they reached a place where the stairs gave out, and they stood directly under the roof.

“Here is the room, sir,” said Robert, gently opening a door, and revealing a picture within the little apartment which arrested young Savage where he stood. This was the picture.

A young girl with raven black hair, so black that a purplish bloom lay on its ripples, stood upon the hearth, stooping over a delicate little boy, whose meagre white face was uplifted to hers with a piteous look of suffering. An old woman, in a low, easy-chair, sat close by the child, who huddled himself against her knees, and clung to her garments as if he had been pleading for something. In the background was a lead-colored mantle-piece, a hollow fireplace, and a few half extinguished embers dying out in a bed of ashes. It was a gloomy picture, yet not without warmth and beauty; for the dying sunbeams came through the window, goldenly as an artist would have thrown them on canvas; and the pure, delicate face of the child was like a head of St. John. Never on this earth did human genius embody a more lovely idea of the Madonna than Anna Burns made, with her worn dress of crimson merino, her narrow collar and cuffs of white linen standing out warmly from the sombre brown of the grandmother’s dress.

Savage unconsciously lifted the hat from his head, and stood upon the threshold struck with a sort of reverence. Anna was speaking to the child, and did not observe him, or her brother. Her voice, saddened by grief, fell upon his ear with a pathos that thrilled him.

“Wait a little—only a little while, darling,” she said. “Don’t plead so, I will go again. You shall have something to eat, if I beg for it in the street, only do not look at me so.”

“But I am so hungry,” pleaded the child.

“I know it—I know it! Oh, grandma! what can I do?”

She changed her position, then, and wringing her hands, went to the window, thus breaking up the picture, and sobbing piteously.

Young Savage entered the room, then, reverently, as if he were passing by a shrine.

“Madam—young lady, I have come from—from my mother.”

Anna turned, and saw this strange young man standing before her, with his head uncovered, and his handsome face beaming with generous emotion. She hastily brushed the tears from her eyes, and, unconsciously, smoothed her hair with one hand, ashamed of the disorder into which her grief had thrown it.

“My name is Savage,” continued the young man, while a faint smile quivered over his lips, as he observed this little feminine movement. “I met this boy, your brother, I think. I—I wish to settle my mother’s account. Pray tell me how much it is?”

“I beg pardon. I am very, very sorry to trouble any one so much. Indeed——”

“She didn’t do it. I went on my own hook,” broke in Robert, who came forward with a glow on his face. “She considers it begging to ask for her own, but I don’t.”

“That is right, my good fellow,” answered Savage. “Business should be left to men. You and I can settle this little affair.”

“No, that is not necessary,” said Anna, smiling. “It is so small a sum that a word settles it. Only I should like your mother to know how thankful I am to her for giving us something to do.”

“Will this be enough?” said the young man, placing a ten dollar note upon the window-sill.

“Half of that—half of that, sir; but I have no change.”

The young man blushed.

“You can give it me some other time, perhaps.”

“I’ll run and get it changed,” broke in Robert.

Anna handed him the bank-note.

“No, no! I insist!” said Savage, earnestly. “There is no need of change. My mother—in fact I want more work done. Let your brother come to me in the morning; I shall have ever so many handkerchiefs to mark with initial letters, which I am sure you embroider daintily. Besides, I have a fancy to make my mother a present of one of those worsted shawls—all lace-work and bright colors—such as nice old ladies can knit without injury to the eyesight. I dare say you could do that sort of thing, madam?”

“Oh, yes!” answered the old lady, brightening visibly. “If I only had the worsted to begin with, and needles, and——”

“That is just what I leave the extra five dollars for. Robert, remember, that is for grandma to begin her work with. It would so oblige me, madam, if you could have the shawl done by Christmas.”

The old lady broke into a pleasant little laugh. Little Joseph, who had been listening greedily, pulled at her dress and whispered:

“Grandma! Grandma! Can I have something now?”

“Yes, dear, yes! only wait a minute.”

“But I am tired of waiting, grandma.”

“Hush, darling, hush!”

Joseph nestled down to his old place, and, half hidden by his grandma’s garments, watched the stranger with his great, bright eyes, eager to have him gone.

The young man saw something of this; but he had never in his life encountered absolute want, and could not entirely comprehend its cravings.

“Let us see about the colors,” he said, approaching the grandmother. “White, with a scarlet border, just a pretty fleece of soft, bright wool turned into lace.”

“I know, I know!” said the old woman, nodding pleasantly. “You shall see; you shall see.”

“Now, that this is settled,” said the young man, balancing his hat in one hand with hesitation, “we must have a consultation, my mother and I, about providing something a little more permanent.”

“You are kind, very kind, sir,” said the old lady, smoothing the kerchief over her bosom, with a soft sweep of both hands. “When my son comes home from the war, he will thank you. Anna, there, don’t exactly know how to do it; and I am an old-fashioned lady, fast turning back to my place among the children; but my son, her father, you know, is a very smart man.”

“And brave as a lion,” shouted little Joseph, from behind the shelter of his grandmother’s garments.

“Hurra! so he is! They made him a corporal the first thing they did. By-and-by he’s going to be a lieutenant. Then, won’t we live! Well, I reckon not; oh, no!” responded the larger boy.

“Robert! Robert!” said the sister, in gentle reproof.

“I couldn’t help it, Anna; can’t for the life of me. Beg the gentleman’s pardon all the same, though.”

“Don’t ask pardons of me. I rather like it, my fine fellow,” answered Savage. “But there has been a great battle; I hope no bad news has reached you!”

“I do not know. That is what makes us so anxious. If I could but see a paper.”

“Go and get one this moment,” said Savage, thrusting some currency into Robert’s hand.

The boy darted off like an arrow; they could hardly hear his feet touch the stairs. Directly he came back again, breathless and pale, with the paper open in his hand, which he searched eagerly for news.

“They have been in the midst of it,” he cried. “The regiment is all cut up; but I don’t see his name in the list. Dear, how I wish the paper would hold still. Anna, you try.” The girl held out her hand, but it shook like an aspen leaf; and Savage took the paper.

“What is your father’s name?” he inquired.

“Robert Burns.”

“I’m named after him, I am,” cried Robert, with an outburst of pride.

Savage ran his eyes hastily down the list of killed. The old woman left her chair and crept toward him, white and still; while little Joseph crept after, forgetting his hunger in the general interest. No one spoke; there was not a full breath drawn. Savage looked up from the paper, and saw those wild, questioning eyes, those white faces, turned upon him with an intensity that made his heart swell.

“His name is not here,” he said.

Dry sobs broke from the women; but Robert shouted out, “Glory! glory!” And little Joseph laughed, clapping his pale hands.

“But the wounded,” whispered Anna; “look there.”

“All right, so far,” answered Savage, running his eyes rapidly down the list. “There is no Burns here.”

The old woman dropped into her chair, and gathering little Joseph to her bosom, covered his face with gentle kisses; while Robert half strangled his sister with caresses, and shook hands vigorously with Mr. Savage, who was rather astonished to find his eyes full of tears, which threw the whole room into a haze.

“Don’t forget to come in the morning,” he said, turning toward the door.

“Of course I wont,” answered the boy, following his new friend into the passage; “but that yellow chap, will he let me in?”

“Come and see. But, Robert, I say, you and I must be friends—fast friends, you know.”

“Yes, when we know each other through and through. But I’m in charge here when father’s gone, and haven’t much time for anything else. Good-by, sir; I’ll be on hand in the morning.”

Savage went away, with his mind and heart full of the scene he had just witnessed. How poor they were? What barren destitution surrounded those two women: yet, how lady-like they seemed. There was nothing in their poverty to revolt his taste, fastidious as it was. Neat and orderly poverty carried a certain dignity with it. He thoroughly respected these two women; their condition appealed to every manly feeling in his nature. Though distrustful from habit and education, he had faith in them, and went home full of generous impulses, wondering how he could do them good. Meantime, Robert went back to the room, radiant.

“Here,” he said, thrusting a bun into Joseph’s hand, “break it in two, and give grandma half; Anna and I will wait awhile. Here is the money, sister; I got it changed at the baker’s, where they wouldn’t trust us a loaf yesterday. You didn’t know it, but I asked ’em. Didn’t their eyes open when I took out that bill. How does the bun taste, Josey? Why, if the fellow hasn’t finished up his half already. Here, give me back some of that money; I’m off for a supper. There is three sticks of wood in the closet, and a little charcoal; just throw them on the fire, and let ’em blaze away; who cares for the expense! Hurra!”

Away the boy went, bounding down the stairs like a young deer, leaving Anna and the grandmother in a state of unusual cheerfulness. They raked up the embers into a little glowing pile, crossed the wood over them, and filled the tea-kettle as a pleasant preliminary. The hearth, clean and cold before, was swept again; and as the darkness closed in, the end of a candle was brought forth and lighted, revealing the desolate room in gleams of dull light, that struggled hard against the shadows.

“How pleasant it is,” murmured the old lady, leaning toward the fire, and rubbing her withered hands over each other. “See, darling, how the firelight dances on the hearth. Hark, now! the kettle is beginning to sing! That means supper, Joseph.”

“Are you hungry, grandma?” asked the boy, looking up to that kind, old face.

“Yes, dear, a little.”

“But you wouldn’t eat a bit of the bun.”

“That was because I liked to see you eat it.”

“Oh, how nice it was! When will Robert come back with more?”

“Here I am!” cried Robert, dashing against the door, and forcing it open with his foot. “Here I am, with lots of good things. There’s a ring of sausages. Here’s bread and butter, and a little tea for grandma, bless her darling old heart; and just one slice of sponge-cake for Anna—cake is awful dear now, or I’d have got enough to treat all round. There’s a paper of sugar, and—and here they go all on the table at once! Sort ’em out, Anna, while I run for a pint of milk, and an apple to roast for grandma. I forgot that. How she does like roasted apples. Get out the frying-pan, and bustle about, all of you. Isn’t that young Mr. Savage a splendid fellow? How I’d like to be a drummer-boy in his regiment. Hurry up, Anna, I’m after the milk!”

Away the boy went again, with a little earthen pitcher in his hands, happy as a lark.

Anna Burns brought forth the frying-pan, placed the links of sausages in it, and surrendered them to grandma, who smiled gently on little Joseph as they began to crisp, and swell, and send forth an appetizing flavor into the room. The kettle, too, sent forth gushes of warm steam, hissing and singing like some riotous, living thing held in bondage. Altogether, the little room grew warmer and pleasanter every moment; and the bright face of Anna Burns grew radiant as she moved about it, setting out the table with a few articles of China left from their former comfortable opulence, and spreading it with a tablecloth of fine damask, so worn and thin, that the pawnbrokers had rejected it.

“Here we go!” cried Robert, coming in with the milk. “Hurra! all ready, and the sausages hissing! That’s the time o’ day! Just get down that China teapot, Anna, and let grandma make the tea. There, Joe, is an apple for you; I reckon you can eat it without roasting. I’ll put one down for grandma. Don’t she look jolly, with the firelight dancing over her? Come, now, all’s ready; bring up the chairs, Josey, that’s your part of the job.”

Little Joseph fell to work with great spirit, and dragged up the chairs, while Anna was dishing the sausages and cutting the bread. Then the old woman drew up to her place nearest the fire, with the teapot before her, ready to do the honors; and, with her hands folded in meek thankfulness on the table, asked a blessing on the only food they had tasted in two days.

Well, God did bless that food, common as it was; and no Roman feast, where libations were poured out to heathen gods, ever tasted sweeter than this humble meal. There was quite a jubilee about that little, pine table; and the old lady, who sat smiling over her teacup, was by no means the least joyous of the little party. As for Robert, he came out famously; talked of the brave exploits his father must have performed in battle; told stories; got up once or twice to kiss his grandmother; and, altogether, behaved in a very undignified manner for the head of a family, as he proudly proclaimed himself. Even little Joseph came out of his natural timidity, and burst into shouts of childish laughter more than once, when Robert became unusually funny. And as for Anna, she laughed, and smiled, and talked that evening, till the boys fairly left their half-empty plates to climb on her chair and caress her. That happy supper, and the pleasant evening that followed, was enough to reconcile one with poverty, which, after all, is not the greatest evil on earth.

CHAPTER II.
PREPARING FOR THE FAIR.

Young Savage went up those marble steps with a light heart and a generous purpose. He would befriend this unfortunate family. His mother should help him. That girl, with the bright, brunette face, was too beautiful for her friendless condition, and the burden of those three helpless creatures who depended on her. He could not get her picture, as she stood by the fireplace, out of his mind.

“Where is my mother?” he inquired of the servant, passing him at the door with a light step.

“Up in her own room, sir. She has just come in.”

Horace made his way up stairs, and entered one of the most luxurious rooms of the noble mansion, in which his mother was sitting, or, rather, lying, with her elbow buried in the satin pillows of a crimson couch, and her foot pressed hard upon an embroidered ottoman. Horace opened the door without noise, and walking across a carpet soft as moss, sat down on the foot of his mother’s couch.

She was a handsome woman, this Mrs. Savage—large, tall, and commanding. It was easy to see where the young man got those fine, grey eyes, and brilliant complexion.

“Oh, Horace! I am glad you have come! Such a day as I have gone through!” cried the lady, fluttering the white ribbons of her pretty dress cap, by the despairing shake of her head. “Upon my word, I think those women will be the death of me; such selfishness! such egotism!”

“It must be very tiresome; but then I sometimes think you like to be tired out on such occasions, mother.”

“But the cause, Horace, the great cause of humanity. These poor soldiers toiling in the field, suffering, dying—and their families. It is enough to break one’s heart.”

Horace looked at his mother in her costly dress, trimmed half way up the skirt with velvet, and lace, and fancy buttons, the cost of which would have fed old Mrs. Burns for a twelvemonth; and, for the first time in his life, a faint idea of her inconsistency broke upon his filial blindness. The very point-lace of her tiny cap would have given a month of tolerable comfort to the soldier’s orphans. Yet, with all this wanton finery fluttering about her, the woman really thought herself a most charitable person, and mourned the dead and wounded over each battle right regally, under moire antique rippled with light, like a cloud in a thunderstorm, at a cost of some ten dollars per yard.

“But it is of no use dwelling on that part of the subject; the proper course is to find a remedy, which we have done in this fair. I tell you, Horace, the country can produce nothing like it. It will be superb. The only trouble is about the tableaux. Every lady of the committee has some commonplace daughter that she insists on crowding into the foreground. Thank heaven, I have no daughter to push forward after this coarse fashion. There is Mrs. Pope, now, insists that Amelia shall stand as Rebecca, in the great Ivanhoe tableau, when her eyes are a greenish-blue, and her hair a dull brown; and I cannot reasonably object, for there is not a passable brunette in the whole company. I was thinking it over when you came in. The whole thing will be spoiled for want of a proper heroine.”

“Who stands as Beatrice?” asked Horace, with the animation of a new idea.

“Miss Eustice, of course.”

“Why, of course?”

“Because she is fair as a lily, blue-eyed, and so exquisitely feminine; and for another reason.”

“What is that, mother?”

“You are to stand as Ivanhoe.”

Horace saw the way open by which his idea might be worked out at once, and it must be confessed, dealt rather artfully with his mother.

“Not with an ugly Rebecca, though. I could not stand that.”

“But how can it be helped?”

“Mother, I saw by accident, this evening, the very person you want—a soldier’s daughter, perfectly lady-like, and very beautiful.”

“Of the right type of beauty? Would she make a striking contrast to my favorite?” inquired Mrs. Savage, eagerly.

“No contrast could be more decided.”

“But who is she?”

“A soldier’s daughter!”

“But is she presentable? Has she style, education?”

“She has everything that goes to form a lovely woman, I should say.”

“Where can I see her?”

“Perhaps she would come to you.”

“It is a bold step; but I can afford that. As my protegé, they will not dare to ask questions. Where does the girl live? Could I see her to-night, or early in the morning? I am so weary now. Upon my word, Horace, you have helped me out of a most annoying dilemma. To-morrow morning, before breakfast, I must see this person. What is her name?”

“Burns, mother—Anna Burns.”

“Thank you, Horace. Now, another thing. We must have something national, patriotic, and all that. A soldier’s family, for instance; but the dresses are so plain and unbecoming, that our young ladies fight shy of it. Could you manage something of the kind for me?”

Horace thought of the picture he had seen that night, and answered that, perhaps, it would be possible, only the whole thing must be managed with great delicacy; and he, as a gentleman, must not be supposed to interfere with it. His mother could write a little note to the young person who had already done work for her.

“For me? Anna Burns? It must have been for the committee. I remember no such person; but that will be an opening. Is she to form part of this tableau, also?”

“The principal figure.”

“And the rest?”

“Two children, for instance, barefooted, hungry, and in clothes only held together with constant mending.”

“Excellent.”

“And an old woman?”

“Better and better! Nice and picturesque, of course.”

“Neat and dainty, with the sweetest old face.”

“It will be perfect! Oh, Horace! what a treasure you are to me. Now, turn down the gas, dear. You have set my mind at rest, and I mean to go to sleep till your father comes home. Here, just put my cap on that marble Sappho, and don’t crush it. Doesn’t she look lovely, the darling! like the ghost of a poetess coming back to life? Now draw the curtains; give me a quiet kiss, and go away to your club, or the opera, or anywhere. Only be sure to have the girl here in time.”

Early the next morning, while Anna was dividing her little store of money, and apportioning it toward the payment of various small debts, she received a note, asking her to call on Mrs. Savage at once, if quite convenient. Anna was too grateful for delay. So, putting on her shawl and a straw bonnet, kept neatly for great occasions, she was on the marble steps, almost as soon as the messenger who brought her note.

Mrs. Savage was taking a solitary breakfast in her own room. The sunlight came in softly through the lace curtains, as if trembling through flakes of snow, and turned the waves of maize-colored damask, that half enfolded them in, to a rich gold color.

Mrs. Savage was seated in a Turkish easy-chair, cushioned with delicate blue, and spotted with the gold-work of Damascus. She wore a morning dress of dove-colored merino, and knots of pink ribbon gave lightness and bloom to her morning-cap of frost-like tulle. She looked up as Anna entered the room, and her whole face brightened. No peach ever had so rich a bloom as that which broke over the girl’s cheek; no statue in her boudoir could boast more perfect symmetry than that form. Walter Scott had no finer ideal when he drew that masterpiece of all his women, Rebecca.

“Come here, my child, and sit down close by me; I want to look at you,” said the lady, beaming with satisfaction. “You have been doing work for us, I hear.”

“Yes, madam,” answered Anna, with a grateful outburst, “yes, madam; thank you for it.”

“Oh! it is nothing but our duty!” replied the lady, forgetting to ask if the work had been paid for. “All our efforts are in behalf of the poor soldiers’ families. Now I want you to help us in another way.”

“I will—I will in any way!”

“We shall open the fair with tableaux—a room has been built on purpose. Of course, the charge will be extra; the pictures will be beautiful—you must stand for two of them.”

“I, madam?”

“Certainly; for you are really beautiful. By the way, have you breakfasted? Here is a cup of coffee; drink it, while I talk to you.”

Anna took the cup of delicate Sevres china, and drank its contents, standing by the table.

“You have a grandmother, or something of that sort, I hear?” observed the lady.

“Oh, yes! the dearest in the world.”

“And some brothers?”

“Yes, madam!”

“Picturesque, I am told; something like boys in the pictures of that delicious old Spanish painter. We must have them, too.”

“What! my brothers?”

“Yes, yes; and the old lady. That will be our grand effort, and our secret, too. Not wanting outside help, we can keep it for a surprise. Be ready when you are called. I think they will come off on Monday. Never mind the costumes; that dress will do very well for the family tableau. As for Rebecca, I will take care of her. My son says the boys and that old woman are perfect. Don’t change them in the least; it would spoil every thing. Oh! Mrs. Leeds, I am so glad to see you. Late am I—the committee waiting?”

This last speech was made to a little dumpty lady, who came fluttering into the room unannounced, with both her hands held out, and an important look of business in her face. The ladies kissed each other impressively; then Mrs. Savage glided up to Anna and whispered,

“Run away now. She mustn’t get a good look at you on any account. Don’t mind turning your back on us. Good-morning. Remember, I depend on you as a soldier’s daughter; it is your duty.”

Anna went out in some confusion, hardly knowing whether she had been well received or not. Coming up the broad staircase, she met young Savage, and he stopped to speak with her.

“You have seen my mother?” he said, gently.

“Yes.”

“And will oblige her, I hope?”

“How can I refuse?”

“That is generous. I thank you.”

“It is I who should give the thanks,” answered Anna with a tremble of gratitude in her voice.

Horace smiled, and shook his head.

“I am afraid you will not let us do enough for any claim to thanks,” he said. “But do not forget to send that fine little fellow after my handkerchiefs. I shall want them.”

Anna promised that Robert should be punctual, and went away so happy, that the very air seemed to carry her forward.

On the afternoon of the third day from that, close upon evening, she stood in Mrs. Savage’s boudoir, again contrasting its luxurious belongings with her simple dress. Mrs. Savage was benign as ever. She had driven her enemy out of the Ivanhoe tableau; and the triumph filled her with exultation. From the boudoir Anna was swept off to the temporary buildings erected for the great fair, hurried through a labyrinth of festooned arches, loaded tables, lemonade fountains, and segar stands, into a dressing-room swarming with young ladies, who took no more heed of her than if she had been a lay-figure. Mrs. Savage was ubiquitous that evening. She posed characters, arranged draperies, grouped historical events, and exhibited wonderful generalship; while Anna stood in a remote part of the room, looking on anxious for the coming of her grandmother, and the two boys, who were to find their own way to the fair at a later hour.

The old lady came in at last with her hood on, and wrapped in a soft, warm blanket-shawl, which some one, she hadn’t the least idea who, had sent to her just before she started. Alone? no, indeed; she did not come alone. Young Mr. Savage had happened to call in just as she was ready, and offered to show her the way. He had admired her shawl so much, and didn’t think the little scarlet stripe at all too much for her, which she was glad of; for it would be so much brighter for Anna when they took turn and turn about wearing it. No, no, it could not have been Mr. Savage who sent it, he was so much surprised. The boys, oh! they were on the way. Robert would take care of his brother, no fear about that. But the fair, wasn’t it lovely? She was so grateful to Mrs. Savage for thinking of her and the boys; the very sight would drive them wild. Here Anna was carried away from her grandmother, and seized upon by two dressing-maids, who transformed her into the most lovely Jewess that eyes ever beheld in less than no time. Young Savage was called out from a neighboring dressing-room, by his mother, to admire her; and his superb dress seemed, like her own, a miracle. The surprise and glory of it all gave her cheeks the richness of ripe peaches, and her eyes were full of shy joy. It seemed like fairy-land.

But the children, where were they? Amid all the excitement, she found this question uppermost in her heart. Poor little fellows! What if they got lost, or failed to find an entrance to the fair? She whispered these anxieties to Savage, who promptly took off his costume and went in search of them, blaming himself a little for having left them behind.

The little fellows were, indeed, rather in want of a friend. They had been for days in a whirl of excitement about the fair. More than once Robert had wandered off toward the building, and reconnoitered it on all sides; he had caught glimpses of evergreens wreathed with a world of flowers; had seen whole loads of toys carried in, and made himself generally familiar with the place. He had been very mournful when Mr. Savage went off with his grandmother, and protested stoutly that he could find the way for Joseph anywhere, and would be on hand for the picture in plenty of time; and to this end he set off about dusk, leading his little brother by the hand, resolved to give him a wonderful treat in the fair before the pictures came on, which he could not understand, and was rather afraid of. So the two hurried along, shabby and ill-clad as children could be, but happy as lords, notwithstanding their naked feet. It seemed to them as if they were going direct to Paradise, where Anna and the old grandmother were expecting them. They reached the entrance of the fair, and were eagerly pressing in, when a man caught Robert rudely by the shoulder, gave him a slightly vicious shake, and demanded his ticket.

The ticket? mercy upon him! he had left it at home, lying on the table. He wrung himself away from the harsh hand pressed on his shoulder, and darted off, calling on little Joseph to follow him. Joseph obeyed, crying all the way with such sharp disappointment as only a sensitive child can feel. Robert darted up stairs, and met Joseph half way up with the ticket in his hand.

“Come,” he cried, brandishing it above his head; “never say die! We’re time enough yet.”

But Joseph had been sorely disappointed once, and was down-hearted enough. He had no hopes of getting in, and one rebuff had frightened him so much that he longed to run home and hide himself. But Robert was not to be daunted. He threw one arm over his brother’s shoulder and struck into a run, carrying the timid child with him like a whirlwind. At last they came to the entrance-door of the fair again, and then a panic seized on Robert, also. What if it were too late? What if the ticket was not good? What if the man drove him away again? Joseph, more timid still, drew close to him and hung back, afraid to advance, and equally afraid to leave Robert and go back.

“Let’s go ahead,” cried Robert, all at once, holding out his ticket and making ready to advance. “Who’s afraid! Keep close to me, Josey, and never mind if the fellow is cross.”

Still Joseph hung back.

“Hurra!”

This came in a low shout from Robert, who saw young Savage coming toward them. He had been a little way up the street watching for their approach. “All right, my boys,” he said, in a clear, ringing voice, that made little Joseph’s heart leap with joy; “grandmother is waiting for you. Come along!”

The next moment Robert and his little brother believed themselves absolutely in Paradise.

CHAPTER III.
THE OLD MAID.

“Miss Eliza?”

“Well, my sweet child?”

“Would you lend me your pearls for this one night?”

“My pearls, darling? My pearls? Oh, Georgie! you cannot understand the associations connected with these ornaments—the painful, the thrilling associations!”

“Don’t! Pray, don’t! When you clasp your hands, and roll up your eyes in that fashion, it gives me a chill—it does, indeed!” cried Georgiana Halstead, really distressed; for when Miss Eliza went into a fit of sentiment, it was apt to go through many variations of sighs, smiles, and tears, till it ended in hysterics.

“A chill, Georgiana? What is a single chill, compared to the agonies of memory that haunt this bosom?” cried Miss Eliza, pressing one large and rather bony hand on that portion of her tall person, for which her dress-maker deserved the greatest credit. “Oh, child, if you had but once listened to my history!”

“Couldn’t think of it! The first ten words would break my heart into ten thousand splinters. Besides, I never could endure mysteries,” cried the young lady, letting down a superb mop of yellow hair, which shimmered like sunbeams over her shoulders, and posing herself before the mirror, as it revealed her lovely person from head to foot.

“My life,” moaned Aunt Eliza, “has both a mystery and a history, which will be found written on my soul, when this poor body, once so tenderly beloved, is laid in the dust.”

“Under the daisies would be prettier, I think,” replied Georgiana, braiding her hair with breathless haste, in two gorgeous bands, while Miss Eliza was talking. “A great deal prettier. There, now, tell me if you like this.”

The fair girl had woven the heavy braids of hair around her queenly head, forming a coronet of living gold above a forehead white as snow, on which the delicate veins might be traced like blue shadows. “This is the way I intend to wear it, with the garland of pearls in front. Won’t it be lovely?”

“No!” said Miss Eliza, shaking her head. “There was a time——”

“Yes, yes! I understand! The skirt will be white satin, the tunic blue velvet, with a border of ermine so deep.”

Miss Eliza came out of her own history long enough to notice that the ermine border would be at least six inches deep; then she retired into herself again, and sighed heavily; and, dropping her head on one hand, fell into a mournful reverie.

“Shall I wear a chain, or a collar of gold?” said Georgiana.

“Yes, it was one chain of flowers,” murmured Miss Eliza, exploring her life backward. “Such flowers as only grow on the banks of Eden.”

“I am afraid Rowena could have sported nothing but wild flowers—a garland of hawthorn-blossoms, or a bouquet of primroses,” said Georgiana, crossing some scarlet ribbons sandal-wise over her ankles, and regarding the effect with great satisfaction.

“Rowena! Rowena! I mentioned no such name. Indeed, I never do mention names,” cried Miss Eliza, arousing herself, and setting upright. “Heaven forbid that I should ever be left to mention names.”

The old maid, for such I am pained to say, Miss Eliza Halstead was, arose solemnly, as she said this, and waving her niece off with a sweep of both hands worthy of a wind-mill in full motion, began to pace up and down the room with long and measured steps, that gave a tragic air to the scene.

“How about the pearls?” questioned Georgie, tying the scarlet ribbon in a dainty little bow. “We haven’t much time. It is getting dark, now, and one doesn’t step out of a Waverly novel, in full rig, without lots of preparation. Mine is the fourth tableau.”

“Tableau? Ah, yes! I remember you were going to stand up as——”

“As Rowena, in Ivanhoe.”

“Rowena! My dear child, you are not tall enough by five inches, and lack the proper dignity. Mrs. Savage must have done this—she always was my enemy from her girlhood; that is—that is, from the first time I dawned upon her life. Let me ask you a question, Georgiana.”

“Be quick, then, please; for I want the pearls.”

“Was Mrs. Savage aware that I was an inmate of this house when she selected you to represent the most queenly character in Sir Walter Scott’s novel. I particularly wish to know.”

“I—I should think it very likely,” answered Georgiana, driving a laugh from her lips which broke from her eyes in a gush of mischief. “It is now six months since you came here.”

“She knew it, and yet invited another. This is life—this is ingratitude! Has she no remembrance of the time when we two—— But why should I dwell on that painful epoch of my life? Georgiana, you shall have the pearls. Let me complete this soul’s martyrdom. Where is my trunk?”

“In the store-room, I think.”

“There again! Relics of the past huddled together in a common store-room—and such relics!”

“Nothing ever was more beautiful!” said the young lady, proceeding with her toilet; “only do bring them along!”

Miss Eliza stalked out of the room with a key grasped in her hands, measuring off her steps like Juno in a fit of heathenish indignation. She returned directly, bearing in her hand a faded red-morocco case, the size of a soup-plate, and considerably battered at the edges. Seating herself in an arm-chair, she opened the case, and began to shake her head lugubriously over the snow-white pearls that gleamed upon her from their neat purple satin. Georgiana looked eagerly over her shoulder.

“Oh, Miss Eliza, I didn’t begin to know how beautiful they were: so large, so full of milky light! No wonder you prize them!”

“Alas! it is not their beauty,” sighed Miss Eliza. “Here, take them, child; they were intended for a more queenly brow, but I yield to destiny.”

Miss Eliza rendered up the case as if it had contained flowers for a coffin, shrouded her features in a corner of the lace anti-macassar which covered the maroon cushions of her easy-chair, and allowed a touching little sob to break from her lips.

“Oh! the associations that are connected with those ornaments!” she moaned.

“Now I will render them doubly dear,” laughed the young girl, laying the white spray on the golden braids of her hair, and moving her head about like a bird pluming itself.

“Destiny! destiny!” murmured Aunt Eliza.

“Beautiful! beautiful!” responded Georgia; and, running into a neighboring dressing-closet, she came forth a lady of the olden times, that might have danced with the lion-hearted Richard.

Aunt Eliza gave one glance at the radiant young creature, rose from her chair, and left the room, wringing her hands like a tragedy queen.

Georgiana took no heed, but framed her pretty image in the glass, where she looked like a picture to which Titian had given the draperies, and Rubens the flesh-tints. As she stood admiring herself, as any pretty woman might, the door opened, and a stately old woman entered, rustling across the floor in a heavy black silk, and with quantities of white tulle softening her face and bosom.

“Oh, Madam Halstead! I am so glad you’ve come! Tell me if this is not perfect?”

“I never think you otherwise than perfect, child—who could?” replied the sweet, low voice of the old lady. “The very sight of you makes me young again.”

“How handsome you must have been,” cried Georgie, throwing one arm around the old lady, and patting the soft cheek, which had a touch of bloom on it, with her dimpled hand. “How handsome you are now!”

The old lady shook her head, and a faint blush stole over her face, and lost itself under the shadows of her silver-white hair.

“Yes, dear, some few who loved me used to think so,” said the old lady.

“Here comes Miss Eliza,” cried Georgiana, seizing upon a large cloak of black velvet, in which she enveloped her dress, and twisting a fleece-like nubia over her head, cried, “Good-night! Good-night! Just one kiss! Good-night!”

Away the bright young creature went, sweeping out of the room, and down the stair case, like a tropical bird with all its plumage in motion.

“Good-night!” she repeated to Miss Eliza, who loomed upon her from the extremity of the upper hall.

“Don’t be too late; I’ll send the carriage back!”

With a toss of her lofty head, and a wave of her hand, Miss Eliza seemed to sweep the young creature out of her presence; then she entered the room where old Mrs. Halstead was sitting in the easy-chair which her daughter had so lately abandoned, and paused inside the door, gazing upon that calm face with a look of mournful reproach.

“Thus, ever thus, do I find the place I have left filled,” she said; “but my own mother, this is too much!”

“Is it that you want the seat, Eliza,” said the old lady, gently lifting herself from the chair; “take it, I have rested long enough.”

“Oh! my beloved parent, that you should make this sacrifice for me!” sighed Miss Eliza, dropping into the chair. “I know that your noble heart would be pained if I did not accept it. I do—I do!”

That fine old lady had lived with her daughter too long for any surprise at this wonderful outgush of gratitude; she only moved to a couch on the other side of the room, and sat down, with a low sigh.

Miss Eliza began to mutter and moan in her chair.

“Are you ill? Is any thing the matter?” inquired the old lady.

“Did you see that child go out? Did you comprehend the conspiracy which that wicked woman has organized to keep me out of these tableaux? Did you observe the impertinence of that flippant girl? Oh! mother, these terrible shocks will break your child’s heart!”

“Eliza! Eliza! this is all fancy,” answered the old lady.

“Fancy! fancy! What is fancy, pray?”

“That you have enemies; that persons wish to annoy you. Why should they?”

Miss Eliza sprang up from her chair, and turned upon her mother.

“No enemies! no enemies! What keeps me here, then? Why is that silly child set up in the tableau nature and cultivation intended me to fill? Madam! madam! are you also joining in the conspiracy against me?” Miss Eliza shook her long, white forefinger almost in the grand old face of her mother, as she spoke. “Is it by your connivance that all gentlemen are excluded from my presence?”

“No one has ever been excluded, Eliza.”

“Indeed!”

The word was prolonged into a sneer, which brought a faint color into Mrs. Halstead’s face.

“To think,” added Miss Eliza, wrathful in the face, “to think of the pincushions, penwipers, and lamp-mats, to say nothing of wax-dolls and little babies, that I have made and dressed for this very fair—it’s enough to break one’s heart. Not a stall left for me to attend; every corner in the tableaux filled up with silly, pert creatures that I wouldn’t walk over. This is justice—this is patriotism. I might be direct from Richmond, for any attention they give me.”

“I am sure, Eliza, the committee were very thankful for your help,” said old Mrs. Halstead, soothingly.

“Thankful, indeed! Oh, yes! it is easy enough to simper, and shake hands, and speak of obligations. But why didn’t they treat all us young girls alike? Why am I left out of every thing?”

Before Mrs. Halstead could answer, a servant entered the room and informed Miss Eliza that the carriage had returned.

“But I will assert my rights,” cried the lady, gathering a rose-colored opera-cloak about her, and pluming herself before the mirror. “You can go, Thomas; I will be down in one moment.”

A little deficiency of the toilet had struck Miss Eliza; and searching in some pocket hid away in her voluminous skirts, she drew forth a little pasteboard box, turned her back squarely on the old lady, and occupied herself, after a mysterious fashion, for some moments close to the mirror.

“Do not defend these women, mamma,” she said, with angry emphasis. “I blush for them.”

There certainly did seem to be some truth in this assertion, for Miss Eliza’s cheeks had flushed suddenly to a vivid red; but then her forehead and around her mouth had grown white in proportion, showing great intensity of shame.

“Now I am going, mamma; but first give me your blessing.” Miss Eliza dropped one knee to her mother’s foot-stool, bent her tall form before the grand old lady, and seemed waiting for a solemn benediction; but the sensible old lady put back the mass of false curls that fell swooping over her daughter’s waterfall, and fastened them in place with a hair-pin from her own silver-white hair.

“That will do, my dear. I see nothing else out of the way.”

Miss Eliza arose with a slight creak of the joints, and a look of mournful reproach.

“Thus it is,” she said, “that one’s most sensitive feelings are thrown back upon the heart. My own mother refuses me her blessing; but I can define the reason—the hidden, mysterious reason.”

This intensified female gathered the opera-cloak around her as if it had been a Roman toga, and sailed out of the room with the sweep of a wind-mill. Mrs. Halstead shook her handsome old head, and sighed faintly when Eliza disappeared.

“Will she never comprehend our position?” she murmured. “Never remember that the bloom of girlhood does not run through mid-age? How good they are to overlook all this.”

CHAPTER IV.
THE FAIR.

An old man sat alone in one of those large, old-fashioned houses, which have been almost driven out of existence by the march of commerce into the haunts of fashion. The rooms were broad, deep, and well lighted; for there was plenty of land around the old house, which was half occupied by the remnants of an old-fashioned garden, in which two or three quince trees might be seen from the side windows, covered with plump, orange-tinted fruit in the late autumn, but gnarled and knotted old skeletons, as they appeared to their owner that frosty afternoon.

The room in which this man sat was large, old-fashioned, and gloomy enough. A Brussels carpet, worn in places till the linen foundation broke through the faded pattern, was stretched upon the floor without quite covering it, and a breadth of striped stair-carpeting eked out the deficiency, running along the footboards in meagre imitation of a cordon.

A ponderous old sideboard of solid mahogany, which contained a multitude of drawers and shelves for every thing, stood in a recess by the fireplace. On this were decanters with silver caps; and tiny silver shields hung around their necks, telling what manner of spirits was imprisoned within, bespeaking the old-fashioned hospitality of forty years ago; and over the sideboard hung a picture from some Dutch artist in which bunches of carrots, heads of cabbages, birds, newly shot, and fish ready for the pan, were heaped together in sumptuous profusion. It was a fine appetizing kitchen scene, in which a few marigolds and hollyhocks had been thrown, as tasteful market-men sometimes cast a handful of coarse flowers on a customer’s basket. Some mahogany chairs, with well-worn horse-hair seats, stood against the wall; and a stiff, spindle-legged sofa, covered with the same useful material, occupied a recess near the fireplace, like that filled by the sideboard.

This old man, who seemed a part and parcel of the room, sat at a round table, old-fashioned as the sideboard, on which the remnants of his solitary dinner still remained. A decanter, full of some ruby-tinted liquor, stood before him; but the glasses were empty, and not a drop of liquid had as yet stained them. With both elbows on the table, and both hands bent under his chin, he sat gazing on the Dutch picture; but apparently seeing something far beyond it, which filled his eyes with gloom, and bent his brows with heavy thought. At last he moved heavily in his chair, and pushed the decanter away toward the centre of the table.

“Why should I think of him now more than at another time?” he muttered. “The fellow is safe enough, I dare say; very likely isn’t in the army at all. Am I a man to grow moody over a dream, or a bit of nightmare? I wouldn’t have believed it if any one had told me so; but, spite of myself, I do feel shaky, and tons of lead seem to be holding down my heart. Hark! I heard the patter of feet running swiftly; now a cry. There is news from the army. Tush! what is that to me? I have no one to mourn or hope for again.”

The old man started from his chair and went swiftly into the hall, crying out, in a hoarse voice, as he flung the door open,

“Boy, boy! I say—boy, a paper, quick!”

The newsboy broke up a shrill cry and came clamping back, selecting a paper from the bundle under his arm as he moved.

“Great battle, sir; list of killed and wounded a yard long! Ten cents; thank you! Can’t stay to give change. Most of our fellers ’ed stick you with a week older, and take the money at that. But I mean ter have yer for a general customer. Hallo! there comes another chap yelling like blazes; bet yer a copper, old boy, that I get round the corner fust.”

Away the sharp, young rogue darted down the street, with the clatter of his thick shoes beating the pavement like a pair of flails, and his shrill, young voice cutting the frosty air with a shrill clearness that made the old man on the door-step shiver.

“It is very cold,” he said, buttoning his coat over his chest with trembling fingers. “Yet I could see the wind whistling through that little fellow’s hair, and he did not seem to mind it, or think that his voice is a death-cry to so many. Why did I get this? What do I care who lives or dies?”

The old man went into the house as he spoke, and sat down on the spindle-legged sofa, unfolding his damp paper in the light of a window behind it. It was the first time he had interested himself in the war news enough to purchase an extra. Now his breath came quickly, and his hands shook with something beside cold.

The boy had spoken no more than the truth. Column after column of names filled up the dead-list; and that was followed by so many names of the wounded and missing, that the most eager affection would tire in searching them. But the eyes of this weary old man seized upon each name, and dropped it with the quickness of lightning. He had so long been accustomed to adding up columns of intricate figures, that names of the dead glided by him like shadows. One column was despatched, and then another.

“What folly,” he said, looking up from the paper. “Why should a dream set me to searching here? Ha! Oh! God, help me! It is here!”

The paper dropped from his hold; his head fell forward. Besting an elbow on each knee, he supported that drooping head with two quivering hands. After a time he arose from the sofa, and began to walk slowly up and down the room with his arms behind him, and his fingers interlocked with a grip of iron.

“Her only son—her only hope.”

This hard, perhaps we may say, this bad man, had been so shaken by a dream that had seized upon his conscience in the night, that he was almost given up to regrets; for the dream was reality now—that paper had told him so.

“Why should I have bought that?” he said, starting from the paper which rustled against him as he walked. “Just as I was thinking to search him out, too. Oh, me! it is hard—it is hard!”

It is an old man I am writing about—a hard, stern man, self-sufficient, and above such small human weaknesses as grow out of the affections; but his whole nature was broken up for the moment. Some plan of atonement, generosity, or ambition, had been overthrown by the reading of that one name among the killed of a great battle.

These thoughts crowded on the lonely man so closely, that he felt suffocated even in that vast room, and went into the hall, beating his breast for the breath that was stifling him. But even the cold hall seemed without atmosphere. So the old man seized his hat, put on an overcoat that hung on the rack, and went into the street. He had no object, save that of finding air to breathe, and wandered off, walking more briskly than he had done for years, though his cane had been left behind. For more than an hour the old man wandered through the streets, so buried, soul and sense, in the past, that he scarcely knew whether it was night or day. At last he came opposite the great fair. Around the entrance a crowd was gathered, and people were passing through in groups, as if some special attraction carried them there.

The old man remembered at once that he had been applied to for contributions to this fair, and, being in a crusty mood, had refused to contribute a cent. Now, when the effect of that name in the death-list was upon him, he groaned at the remembrance of his rudeness; and forcing his way with the crowd, purchased a ticket and went in.

This old man was not much given to amusing himself; and the beautiful scene before him had more than the charm of novelty. The flags, wreathed among flowers and heavy evergreen garlands, made the enclosure one vast bower, haunted with lovely women, ardent, generous, and radiant with winning smiles. The lights, twinkling through gorgeous draperies and feathery-fine boughs, almost blinded him as he came in from the dark street. The life, the hum of conversation, the laughter that now and then rang up from some stall, or group, fell upon him strangely. These people seemed mocking the heavy, dead weight of sorrow that lay upon his soul. At another time he would have gone away in disgust, muttering some sarcasm, and escaping out of the brightness with a sneer. But he was just then too wretched.

He had refused money when it was asked of him; but now—now, when conscience was crowning his soul with thorns, he would be liberal. Fortunately, there was plenty of money in the breast-pocket which almost covered his heart—that should redeem him from his own reproaches. He would buy any amount of pretty nothings, and, for once, fling away his money like dirt—why not? It was his own, and no one in this world had a right to question him.

With these new thoughts in his mind, the old man paused before one of those fairy-like enclosures, which, in such places, seem to have drifted out of Paradise. It was one mass of evergreens, living ivy, and creeping plants, rich with blossoms; back of the little bower this wealth of foliage was drawn back like the drapery of a window, and through its rich green came the gorgeous warmth of hot-house plants in full flower. Fuchsias, with a royal glow of purple at heart, and rich crimson folding it in, drooping over a Hebe vase of pure white alabaster, whose pedestal was planted among azalias white as clustering snow, pink as a summer-cloud, or blood-red, in great blossoming clusters, that fairly set the atmosphere ablaze with their gorgeousness. Behind all this was some tropical tree of the acacia species, drooping like a willow over the whole, and laden with raciness of delicate golden blossoms. Around the pedestal of the vase was a wreath of fire, composed of tiny jets of gas, trembling up and down like jewels half transmuted into the atmosphere, which shed a tremulous brilliancy into the cups of the flowers, and over the greenness of the leaves.

In the midst of this lovely spot stood a young girl, with a fleecy white nubia twisted around her head, and a heavy velvet sacque shrouding her under-dress from head to foot—or, rather, so far as her person was visible. She had evidently only stepped into the stall to supply the place of its usual occupant, and looked a little bewildered when the old man came up and inquired the price of a wax-doll.

“This,” said Georgiana Halstead, seizing the doll, which gave out a little, indeed, sullen shriek, as her hand pressed its bosom, “this lovely little lady in full ball costume, with a flounce of real lace, and this heavenly sash. Well, really, sir, I should think—let me see,” here Georgiana cast a side glance at her customer—“I should think, twenty, or—yes, twenty-five dollars—thirty, say——”

The nature of the man arose above his sorrow. He cast a withering glance at the fair young face turned upon him, and withdrew his hand from under his vest, where he had half thrust it in search of his pocket-book.

“Thirty dollars for that thing?” he growled.

“For this thing! this loveliest of lovely little ladies! Why, one blink of her eyes is worth the money. Just see her fall asleep,” cried Georgiana; and with a magic twist of her finger, the doll closed its blue eyes in serene slumber. “Thirty dollars—I am astonished at myself for asking so little.”

A grim smile stole over those thin lips, and the old man’s eyes sparkled through their gloom, as he looked on that cheerful face dimpling with mischief, turned now upon him, now upon the doll. The scarlet ball-dress, in which the mimic fashionable was arrayed, sent a flush down the white arm that held it up for admiration, and from which the velvet sleeve had fallen loosely back, revealing a bracelet of pure gold, formed of two serpents twined together, and biting each other. The old man’s face became suddenly of a grayish white as he saw the ornament.

“Where—where did you get that?” he questioned, in a low, hoarse voice, touching the bracelet with his finger.

“That, sir,” cried Georgiana, lowering the doll till her sleeve fell to its place again, and speaking with sudden dignity, “why should you ask?”

“Because I have seen one like it before, and only one. Do not be angry, young lady. I have no wish to be rude; but tell me where you got those twisted snakes?”

“They belong to Mrs. Halstead, my father’s stepmother,” answered Georgiana, impressed by the intense earnestness of the man.

“Mrs. Halstead! I do not know the name; but I should like those serpents. If this Mrs. Halstead is one of your benevolent women, who are willing to fling their ornaments into the national fund, I will pay her handsomely for them—very handsomely.”

“Of course, grandmamma is as charitable as the day is long, and would give almost any thing to help those who suffer for our country; but I don’t know about these pretty reptiles. She may have a fondness for them—some association, as Miss Eliza says.”

“No, no, that cannot be! they have no connection with her. She must have bought them at some pawnbroker’s sale. They can have no value to her, except as a curiosity. Ask her if she will sell them for ten times their weight in gold!”

“I—I will ask her, if you wish it so much; but she will think it strange.”

“No matter—ask her. And now, to show you that I am in earnest, here is thirty dollars for that bit of satire on womankind, which you may hand over to the first little girl that comes along. Ah! here is one now, looking meek and frightened. Little woman, would you like a doll?”

The little girl thus addressed turned her great, brown eyes from the old man to the doll, shrinking back, and yet full of eager desire.

“Is it for me?—for me?” she said at last, as the glorious creature was pressed upon her. “Please, don’t make fun of me!”

“He isn’t making fun, indeed he isn’t, my little lady,” cried Georgiana, delighted with the whole proceeding. “I dare say he hasn’t any little girl of his own, and wants to do something nice by the little girl of somebody else. Take it in your arms, dear, and don’t forget the good gentleman when you say your prayers.”

“I won’t, indeed, sir. I’ll put you into the long prayer, and the short one, too, special,” cried the little creature, dimpling brightly under her happiness, and huddling the great doll up in her arms as if she had been its mother. “Aunt, aunt, see here!” Away the little creature darted toward some woman, who was so mingled up with the crowd that her bonnet only could be distinguished.

“There is one person made happy by your thirty dollars, sir,” said Georgiana, brightly; “to say nothing of those who will receive your money. Any thing more that I can show you? Here comes a couple of little boys barefooted, and looking so poor.”

The old man turned toward the two boys, who had wandered away from some inner room, and were gazing around them with eager curiosity. Something in their faces seemed to strike him, for his countenance changed instantly, and he took a step forward to meet the children, who paused before the stall where Georgiana presided, lost in admiration.

“What would you buy here, if you had plenty of money?” asked the old man, laying one hand on the elder lad’s shoulder.

“If I had plenty of money?” repeated the boy, staring into the dark face bending over him. “I—I don’t know. I never had plenty of money.”

“But you would like to buy some of these nice things?”

“Oh! yes, I would.”

“Well, what is there here that you like?”

The lad took a swift survey of the brilliant articles arranged in Miss Halstead’s stall.

“I’d buy one of them caps for grandma,” he said; “and that shawl, with the red and white border, for sister Anna.”

“No, no! buy ’em a whole heap of candy, and cakes, and oranges, and peanuts,” cried the younger child, pulling at his brother’s coat.

“Come here,” said the old man, in a tone of compassion, “let me look in your face.”

The elder lad turned frankly, and lifted his eyes to those of the old man. That was a frank, honest young face, full of life and purpose, notwithstanding the pallor which spoke of close rooms and insufficient food.

“These are thin clothes for winter,” said the old man, grasping Robert’s shoulder almost roughly. “What is your father doing, that you have nothing better than these things?”

“My father went to fight for his country,” answered the lad, bravely. “It isn’t his fault.”

“It isn’t his fault,” repeated the younger boy, creeping behind his brother as he spoke, dismayed by his own voice.

“No shoes!” muttered the old man.

“A soldier’s boys know how to go barefooted,” said Robert. “It don’t hurt us—much.”

“Come with me! come with me! I saw some things round here that may be worth something!”

The old man strode away as he spoke, followed by the two boys, who ran to keep up with him. He stopped at a less showy stall than that he had left, and spoke to the rather grave female who presided there.

“Take a good look at these children, and fit them out with warm, decent clothing. You can supply something fanciful in the way of a hat or cap for the little fellow with the curls. Let the boots be thick and strong. Leave nothing out that will make them comfortable for the winter. Make them up in two bundles; they’ll find strength to carry them, I dare say.”

“Oh, yes, yes!” almost shouted the boys in unison.

“We know how to carry carpet-bags and bundles, don’t we?” continued Robert, addressing Joseph, who was shrinking away from the sound of his own voice.

“You do,” whispered the little fellow; “you do.”

“Come along with me,” said the old man, who had cast off half the weight of his sorrow since these children had approached him. “There is something to eat around here.”

“Oh, my!” exclaimed Joseph, with a sigh of infinite delight; “oranges, maybe, or peanuts.”

“Sir,” said Robert, lifting his clear eyes, bright with thankfulness, to the old man’s face, that was so intently regarding him, “would you just as leave let me stay behind, and take grandmother and sister Anna? They’d like it so much.”

“No, no! come along! I’ll give you something for them. We can’t have women about us.”

He spoke peremptorily, and the children obeyed him, almost afraid.

All sorts of delicious things broke upon the lads when they entered that portion of the fair which was used as a restaurant; and these half-famished young creatures grew wild with animal delight when cakes, pies, and oranges were placed in their hands.

The old man sat down, and, leaning his elbows on a table, watched these happy children as they eat the food he had given them. In years and years he had not tasted pure joy like that. Any one, to have watched him then, would never have believed him the hard old fellow that he was. His eyes sparkled, and he chuckled softly when little Joseph hid away an orange in his pocket, thinking how nice it would be for grandma; and, after a little, he fell to himself, and began to eat with relish. The very sight of those children enjoying themselves so much had given him an appetite.

The bundles were all ready when this strange group returned for them.

“Now for the red and white shawl, and that cap,” said the old man. “Here are lots of candies, and the other things in this paper, which we will roll up in them.”

“Will you, though?” said Robert, taking a bundle under each arm. “I say, sir, won’t you let me hold your horse and run errands for all this? I’ll do it first-rate.”

The old man looked down kindly upon him.

“Perhaps, who knows,” he said, answering some idea in his own mind rather than what the lad was saying. “Here is the stall, but the lady is gone.”

True enough; another person had taken the place of Georgiana Halstead, of whom the shawl and cap were bought.

The old man was keenly disappointed, for he had intended to learn something more about the serpent-bracelet. But the young lady in charge had no knowledge of the lady who had preceded her temporarily.

While the old man was questioning this lady, a young girl came hurrying through the crowd, eagerly looking for some one in eager haste. She saw the boys, and came breathlessly up.

“Oh! I am so glad to have found you, boys!” she cried, addressing them in haste. “The ladies are waiting for you!”

“Oh, Anna! he has been so kind! You wouldn’t believe it!” cried Robert, looking down at his bundles. “Such clothes!”

“Such cakes and candies,” chimed in Joseph.

“And something for you. Such a shawl—there it lies; and a cap for grandma!” said Robert. “Thank him, Anna; I cannot do it half!”

“I don’t understand—I am in such haste. The time is up, sir; but I think you have done something very generous, that my brothers want me to thank you for. I do it with all my heart. But we must go.”

“Not till you have taken these,” said the old man, hastily rolling up the paper of bon-bons in the shawl, which he had just paid for. “It is a present from this fine lad; wear it for his sake.”

“I’ll carry it for her, and the cap, too,” cried Joseph, seizing on the carelessly-rolled bundle.

“Good-night, sir! I wish I had time to thank you,” said Anna, earnestly. “Good-night!”

“Good-by, sir!” said Robert, with a faltering voice; for he was near shedding tears of gratitude.

“Good-by! I wish I could do something for you.”

Away the three went, after uttering their adieus, passing swiftly through the crowd.

The old man followed them at a distance till they led him into that portion of the building devoted that evening to tableaux, when they disappeared through a side door.

“A dollar extra, here!” said a man stationed near the door. “The seats are almost filled!”

The old man took some money from his pocket, and went in, feeling interested in the persons he had befriended, and resolved to find them again if possible. He sat down on a bench near the door, and waited. The room was full, the light dim, and a faint hum of whispering voices filled the room.

At last a bell rang. Some dark drapery, directly before him, was drawn back, and then appeared before him those boys huddled together near an old lady, in poverty-stricken garments, with a yawning fireplace in the background, and a young girl brightening the tableau with her beauty.

There was breathless stillness in the room—for the picture was one to touch the heart and fire and refine the imagination. No one stirred; and every eye was bent on that living picture of misery. But, all at once, some confusion arose near the door; an old man was pressing his way out so eagerly that he pushed the doorkeeper, who was leaning forward to see the picture, so rudely aside, that he almost fell.

CHAPTER V.
AN UNEXPECTED PERFORMER.

Twice Anna Burns had changed her costume, first to satisfy Mrs. Savage, that it would be all that she desired for the Ivanhoe tableaux; and again, that no detail of poverty should be wanting to that picture which, alas! has been so often duplicated in real life, “The Soldier’s Destitute Family.” As she was putting on a Jewish garment a second time, in the little drawing-room, a rather heavy hand was laid on her shoulder, and a voice that made her start, from the deep tragedy of its tones, sounded in her ear.

“Are you the young person?”

“I—I—— What young person?” faltered Anna, turning crimson under the touch of that hand.

“Mrs. Savage has a dependent or protegé, here, who is to stand in the Ivanhoe picture. Are you that person?”

Anna turned suddenly, and looked her tormentor in the face. She was a tall, angular person, with a complexion that seemed washed out and re-dyed, pale blue eyes, full of impatient ferocity, and a mouth that was perpetually in motion.

“Are you that person?” she repeated, giving the shoulder she pressed a slight shake.

“I came here at the request of Mrs. Savage, if that is what you to wish to know,” answered Anna Burns, stepping back with a gesture of offended pride.

“And you are her Rebecca?” answered Miss Eliza Halstead, shaking out her laced handkerchief, and inhaling the perfume which it gave forth with a proud elevation of the head. “So she is determined to monopolize every thing. Has Miss Georgiana Halstead arrived yet?”

“I do not know the lady.”

“Not know her, and she is to be your foil—your rival. When you go off the stage she will come on, robed in azure velvet, crowned with pearls—my pearls; while I——but never mind, there is blood in my veins which can protect itself. Oh! here she comes. Say nothing; be secret as the grave! You will see! You will see!” Miss Halstead put one long finger to her lips, and glided backward out of the room just as Georgiana Halstead came in by a side entrance.

For a moment these two young girls stood looking at each other; one with a rosy blush on her cheeks and a smile on her lips; the other shy, pale, and shrinking. She felt like an intruder there.

Georgiana was the first to speak.

“I suppose, from that dress, that you are Miss Burns,” she said, with graceful cordiality. “There is no one here to introduce us; but I am Miss Halstead, as the dear, delicate, stupid Rowena, who is to get Ivanhoe away from you.”

A flush of scarlet came over Georgiana’s face, as she became conscious of her own light speech, and felt the strange look which Anna turned, unconsciously, upon her; but she turned this embarrassment off with a sweet laugh; and throwing aside her velvet sacque, stood out in the dim room a picture in herself.

“How beautifully you are dressed,” she said, scanning Anna’s costume with an admiring glance. “That crimson velvet tunic, with its warmth and depth of color, has singular richness. And the diamond necklace, how the light quivers over it. Upon my word, Madam Savage has exhibited a taste for once. The whole effect is wonderful.”

“It is her taste; I had nothing to do with it,” said Anna, glancing at her own loveliness in the glass. “The diamond necklace, if it is diamonds, belongs to her. Indeed, I scarcely know myself in this dress or place.”

“But I hope to know you, and intimately, some day,” answered Georgiana, with prompt admiration. “But here comes the madam, with a train of committee-ladies, ready to give us inspection. Don’t let them change a fold of that turban, or a single thing about you. Remember, those who have the least taste will be the first to interfere.”

“Here they are all ready, and looking so lovely,” cried Mrs. Savage, sweeping into the room, followed close by half a dozen associates, whose silken dresses rustled sumptuously as they moved. “Isn’t she perfect, dear child? But when is she otherwise?”

Here Mrs. Savage stooped and kissed Georgiana’s white neck with a glow of natural fondness, which the girl felt in her heart of hearts, and became radiant at once.

“And Miss Burns, too. How completely she has followed out my idea. Isn’t she the most fascinating little Jewess that ever lived? Ah! are they ready? Come, Georgie, child, you are wanted. Ladies, hurry back to your seats. I would not have you lose this tableau for any thing.”

A little storm of exclamations followed this speech. Then the silks began to rustle violently again, while the committee made a rush, and, with a confusion of whispers, diffused itself in the audience, which was soon enveloped in darkness. A bell tinkled; the dark curtain swept back, and through a screen of rose-colored gauze Ivanhoe and Rowena were seen surrounded with rich draperies, heavy carvings, and all the appointments of a feudal picture. Rowena was looking down overpowered by the love-light in Ivanhoe’s glance; a soft, rosy bloom lay on her cheek; a smile hovered about her lips; no flower ever drooped more modestly in the sunshine that brightened it. The young creature did not move, but you could see the slow heave and fall of her bosom. There was no acting there; the presence of love, pure and vital, made itself felt, though it might not have been thoroughly understood. Ivanhoe gazed down upon her with admiration, and it may be that more tender feelings called forth the bright smile on his face. But young Savage was thinking of the character he was to maintain—she was thinking only of him. A single minute this noble picture defined itself before the crowd; then the curtain fell, and all was dark again.

The tableau was one which had been designed to repeat itself by a change of position in the characters. While the applause was loudest, and young Savage stood behind the curtain holding Georgie’s hand; while he described the position she was to assume, a rather impatient voice from behind the scenes called for Miss Halstead. The young lady, who was blushing and shrinking under the careless touch of his hand, ran out, and found one of the servant-girls in attendance, who said that she must come at once and speak with Mrs. Savage before the curtain rose again.

Georgie followed the girl in haste, and the moment she disappeared a figure came out from one of the dark corners and entered upon the stage, which was but dimly lighted from behind the scenes. Savage saw the glitter of her dress, and without looking closer spoke in eager haste.

“Just in time. They are getting impatient. There, stand there, with your head averted, as we arranged it: now your hand.”

Savage dropped on one knee as he spoke, took the hand which dropped lovingly into his, and lifted his fine eyes to the but half averted face. A start, which brought him half up from his knees; a quick ringing of the bell, and every face in the audience was turned in amazement on Miss Eliza Halstead, whose tall, gaunt form was arrayed in blue satin, surmounted by a tunic of maize-colored velvet; a band of pointed gold girding her head like a coronet, and from under it flowed out a mass of dull brown curls, wonderful to behold. Her head was turned aside; one hand was half uplifted, as if to conceal the blushes that lay immovable on her cheeks; and a simper, which had a dash of malicious triumph in it, gave disagreeable life to her face.

Young Savage had sunk back to his lover-like position as the bell rang, and went through his part with a hot flush on his cheek, and a quick sense of the ridiculous position he filled quivering around his handsome mouth. But though master of himself, he heard the bell ring with a sense of infinite relief, and instantly sprang up, uttering what I am afraid would have been a very naughty exclamation had it been allowed to go beyond his breath.

“Ah! I thought you would be surprised,” cried Miss Eliza, beaming upon him in the twilight of the stage. “Believe me, dear Mr. Savage, I never suspected that you had any share in the conspiracy to keep me in the shade. But I have defeated them for once; and I saw by that flush on your cheek how completely you triumphed with me.”

Savage struggled to keep from laughing, and submitted to the pressure which Eliza gave his hand between her two palms with becoming philosophy.

“I suppose they will expect us to give place to the next tableau,” he said, quietly releasing his hand. “This way, if you are going to the dressing-room.”

Miss Eliza took his arm, and marched triumphantly off the platform. At the first step she met Georgiana coming back breathless.

“It is over,” said Miss Eliza, solemnly; “the evil machinations of my enemies has, for once, been defeated; tell Mrs. Savage and her crew this, with my compliments. The audience out yonder can tell you that, for once, they have seen a genuine tableau, truthful, artistic, rich in passionate silence. Mr. Savage here can tell you how it was received with touching and intense stillness; then a ripple of admiration; then a buz of admiring curiosity. We came away to avoid the outburst of enthusiasm, which was no doubt overwhelming.”

“What is this about? What does it all mean?” said Georgiana, bewildered. “Am I too late? After all, it seems that no one really sent for me.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Miss Eliza, with a toss of the head. “Have you just found that out?”

“The tableau is over,” said young Savage, laughing in spite of himself. “Miss Halstead has honored me by taking your place.”

Georgiana was dumb with angry astonishment; a flood of scarlet rushed over her face and neck. She even clenched her little hand, and, for once, made a fist of it that would have done great credit to a belligerent child ten years old. Then she burst into a laugh, musical as a gush of bird songs in April.

“You didn’t do that, Miss Eliza. Oh! it is too, too delicious. Savage on his knees, you ——”

Again she burst forth into a musical riot of laughter, while Eliza stood before her frowning terribly. I am afraid Savage joined her; but the two voices harmonized so well that Miss Eliza never was quite certain.

“Georgiana Halstead, I hate you!” she cried, with a sweep of the right arm.

“I—I can’t help it,” pouted the young girl, pressing a hand hard against her lips; “the whole thing is so comical. What will Mrs. Savage say?”

Georgiana might well ask, for Mrs. Savage had been in front, and sat aghast during the whole performance, which only lasted a few minutes. After which she went into something as near rage as well-bred women permit themselves; and absolutely tore a handkerchief made of gossamer and lace into more pieces than she would have liked to confess even to herself. A half-suppressed giggle, which came from that portion of the room where the committee was clustered, brought the proud lady to her composure; and leaning toward her most inveterate rival, she whispered confidently,

“It went off tolerably, after all, just as I expected.”

“Oh!” said the lady rival, smiling sweetly, “then you arranged it.”

“Georgiana Halstead was so kind. It quite annoyed her to have Miss Halstead cut out so entirely. Such a lovely disposition. Then there is great power in contrast, you know; and my young friend, who comes next, is directly opposite to Miss Halstead. Contrast, contrast, my dear, is every thing. You’ll see that I am right. How splendidly Savage bore himself. But I knew that we could trust to him.”

During this long speech, the lady to whom Mrs. Savage addressed herself, took an occasion to whisper to her next neighbor, who bent toward the person who sat next her; this swelled into a buz, which ran through the committee, and beyond it, checking all laughter as it went.

Then Mrs. Savage rose with dignity, and went back of the scenes, rustling her silks like a green bay-tree, and biting her lips till they glowed like ripe cherries. She met Miss Halstead sailing majestically toward her carriage, still clinging to the arm of young Savage with desperate pertinacity.

“Here comes your mother, sir, my bitterest enemy. As a defenceless female, I claim your protection,” cried that lady, pausing suddenly, and clasping both hands over his arm, as Mrs. Savage came up.

“My dear Miss Halstead, how beautifully you did it. I came at once to thank you. Fortunate, wasn’t it, that my messenger overtook you?”

Mrs. Savage said this, smiling blandly, and with her gloved hand held forth with a cordiality perfectly irresistible.

“Messenger, Mrs. Savage,” said Eliza Halstead, drawing herself up with an Elizabethian air. “I do not understand!”

“Not understand, and yet acted the part so well. Oh, Miss Halstead!”

Eliza Halstead was eccentric and headstrong; but she was not quite a fool. In fact, few people possessed so much low cunning. She had all the craft and calculation of a lunatic, without being absolutely crazy. It flashed across her mind instantly that she would do well to accept at once the doubtful invitation hinted at, and thus escape the odium of a rude intrusion.

“Ah, my dear Mrs. Savage, you are so good,” she cried, bowing her head, but still keeping both hands clapsed over that reluctant arm. “Still I was but just in time. I am so glad you were pleased; Mr. Savage here was delighted.”

“The whole thing was charming,” answered Mrs. Savage, setting her teeth close and turning away. “The ladies are all delighted. Horace, pray make haste and escort Miss Halstead to her carriage, if she must go; the ladies are dying to thank you for this surprise. How prettily Georgiana entered into our little conspiracy. Good evening, Miss Halstead; be careful and not take cold. Adieu!”

“What a charming woman your mother is—so queenly, so gracious,” whispered Eliza, leaning toward her companion. “So magnificently handsome, too. Never in my life did I see a son and mother resemble each other so much. Thank you, Mr. Savage! thank you! If I remember rightly, Rowena gave Ivanhoe her hand to kiss—ungloved, I fancy—there, this once.”

Miss Halstead leaned out of the carriage, and held forth her hand, beaming gently upon young Savage, who took the hand, pressed it, bowed over it, and laid it gently back into Miss Halstead’s lap.

“I dare not presume! I have not the audacity!” he said. “Adieu! adieu! Believe me, I shall never forget this evening!”

“Oh, heavens! nor I!” exclaimed Miss Eliza, kissing her own hand where he had touched it, with infinite relish. “Of all the nights in my life this is my fate!”

Young Savage was at a safe distance when Miss Eliza uttered this tender truth; but, as she declared afterward, “Her soul went with him, and joined its home forever more!”

As Horace Savage returned, he met Anson Gould, a young man about whom all uppertendom raved, as the most splendid creature that ever lived; so rich, so distinguished, so talented, and so on.

“Hollo! Gould! what are you doing here, wandering about like a lost babe in the woods? Searching for my mother, eh?”

“No,” answered Gould, laughing; “I am in search of what is called the gentlemen’s dressing-room. Your mother has booked me for Bois Guilbert, with a Rebecca that she promises shall be stunning—a Miss Burns. Tell me who she is, Savage. I do not remember the name in our set.”

Savage felt a hot glow coming to his cheek. His light, off-handed way of mentioning that young girl annoyed him exceedingly.

“Miss Burns is a friend of my mother’s—not in society yet, I believe,” he answered, quietly. “But I keep you waiting; that is the way to your dressing-room.”

“Gould moved on, and, for the first time, young Savage remarked how wonderfully handsome he was. I think he congratulated himself somewhat by remembering that the Templar was also a splendid specimen of a man, and yet Rebecca could not be persuaded to love him. Still the young gentleman’s spirits became somewhat depressed from that moment, and, forgetting that he had promised to make himself generally useful in his mother’s behalf, he crept away into a corner of the audience-chamber, and there, half of the time in semi-darkness, watched the curtain rise and fall, dismissing each picture presented with something like angry impatience.

At last the bell sounded with a vim, and the audience were all on the alert. The noise of more than usual stage preparations had whetted curiosity; and it had been whispered about that something superb was coming, in which Anson Gould would be a principal character—Anson Gould, the greatest catch of the season. No wonder there was a buzz and rustle, as if summer insects and summer winds were playing among forest-boughs in that portion of the room where young ladies most prevailed.

As I have said, the bell sounded with a vim; the curtain swept back, and there was a picture worth seeing. Just a little scenery had been introduced into the background. An antique window, showing glimpses of a battlement beyond, and, poised on this battlement, with one foot strained back, ready for a spring, and her face turned back, with a gesture of passionate menace, stood one of the most beautiful girls that eyes ever dwelt upon. She was superb in her haughty poise; superb in that proud outburst of despair which had sent her out on that dizzy height, choosing destruction rather than dishonor. Her dark eyes, like those of a stag at bay, were bent on the kneeling Templar, whose face and form would have won the general attention from any one less gloriously beautiful than that girl.

Young Savage started to his feet, and leaned forward, absorbed. His heart stood still for the moment, and a strange feeling of pain came upon him. By what right did that man gaze upon her with such passionate admiration. It was real; the wild love-light in those eyes knew no dissembling. Young Gould was his rival—yes, his rival! There was no use in attempting to deceive himself, he was in love—really in love—for the first time in his life—and with whom? He remembered that low garret—the old woman—the child; and that young creature bending with such sad, loving pity over them both. He remembered the pile of oyster-shells in the chimney-corner, and all the poverty-stricken appointments of the room with a strange thrill of passion. His love should lift her out of those depths. Gould should never have an opportunity of kneeling to her again—even in the seeming of a picture. But then his mother, his proud, aristocratic father—what of them?

Mrs. Savage came up to her son where he stood, and laid one of her white hands on his arm. “Was there ever a success like that?” she said, looking back upon the tableau with enthusiasm. “It sweeps away that absurd scene with the old maid. How did that happen, Horace? Don’t tell me now, some of them may be listening. Oh! I see you admire this as I do. It is the great triumph of the evening.”

“Mother,” said Horace Savage, rather abruptly, “why did you cast Gould in that piece?”

“In order that you might stand with Georgiana, Horace. I thought you understood,” answered Mrs. Savage, a little surprised.

“Yes, yes; I understand. It was very kind. See, they are clamoring for a second sight. I don’t wonder. How confoundedly handsome the fellow is!”

The curtain was drawn aside at the demand of the audience, and once more Rebecca was seen ready to seek death rather than listen to unholy vows, which could only bring dishonor. The room was still as death; not a whisper sounded; scarcely a breath was drawn. The picture was more lifelike, more replete with silent passion than before; while the breath stood still on every lip, and all eyes were turned on the beautiful girl, a deadly white settled on her face; her lips parted with a cry that prolonged itself into a wail of pain that thrilled through and through the crowd, and the poor creature fell headlong into the darkness, carrying the mock battlement with her.

CHAPTER VI.
THE SOLDIER’S DEATH.

It was the voice of a child that had struck the life from that young heart; a voice so changed and lost in anguish that it seemed to cleave its way through her whole being.

“Anna—sister Anna—come down! Our father is killed! He is dead—he is dead!”

As the last syllable trembled on the boy’s lips, his sister fell upon the floor at his feet, white, cold, and insensible. He thought the news had killed her. Down he went upon his two knees, and strove to lift up her head, around which the turban gathered like a mockery.

“Oh! lift her up! Take off these things,” pleaded the poor boy, lifting his agonized face to those who crowded around him. “She is dead, too! I killed her—it was me! Take them off—take them off; they look so hot and bright—she so cold. Won’t she move? Try and make her look up. See how limp her hand is. Anna, Anna! Oh, sister Anna! must you go, too?”

Robert fell down by the side of his sister, shaking in all his limbs, and moaning in piteous sorrow. It did seem as if his cry had killed that fair young creature, who lay there under those rich vestments like a pure white lily in the glow of a warm sunset.

The boy lay with his arms on the floor, and his face buried on them, sobbing piteously.

The noise of his grief reached that benumbed heart. Anna moved, and lifting her arm feebly, laid it over her trembling brother. He started up with a cry, and rained tears and kisses on her face till she, too, rose up, clinging to him.

“Was it you—was it you, Robert, that said it?”

“Yes, Anna! Don’t cry; don’t break down again. I could not help telling you; my heart was breaking. Oh! Anna, Anna! my heart is all broken up!”

Anna sat upright on the floor. Her hands wandered upward and took the hot turban from her head.

“Oh! if these things were put away—if I had my old dress on! How shall we get home, Robert, I—I am so weak?”

“Come with me,” said a sweet voice, “come with me. Your dress is all ready; I will help you put it on.”

It was Georgiana Halstead, whose pretty face, all anxiety and tender compassion, bent over her.

“Come with me, Anna, for I am so sorry for you.”

Anna looked up piteously. “My father is dead!” she answered.

“I know—I know. There, lean on me; the dressing-room is close by.”

Georgiana was crying softly as she spoke; and she wound her arm around that poor girl, supporting her tenderly as Robert followed them to the dressing-room door. Patiently, and with tears stealing down his face, the boy waited for his sister. She came out directly in her brown dress and modest bonnet.

“They want me to wait for a carriage, Robert; but I cannot—I cannot. You and I will go alone.”

“No,” said a voice at her elbow. “Come, both of you, I have a carriage ready.”

Anna looked up, and Savage caught a glimpse of her face. It was white and quivering, like a white rose wet with rain.

“My poor child, this is terrible!” he said, folding the thin shawl around her; “but you shall not bear it alone, you have friends.”

Anna gave him a grateful look through her tears, and fresh sobs broke to her lips.

“It may be possible that there is a mistake in the record,” said Savage, making a desperate effort to comfort her.

Anna looked up suddenly with a gleam of light in her eyes; but her head drooped on the moment, and she answered sadly.

“I feel that he is dead! If he were alive, there would be some warmth here.”

A carriage waited near the entrance of the fair, and young Savage lifted her in. Then he made way for Robert, and when the lad hesitated, took him up bodily and landed him on the front seat. It was a gloomy ride; few words were spoken, and those were lost in sobs.

“How can I tell her? Oh! it will kill my grandmother. He was her only son—all she had in the wide, wide world.”

Savage took the two hands which Anna clasped in her lap, and pressed them between his.

“Shall I tell her for you?” he said, gently.

“No; that would be cruel.”

“I—I will do it,” sobbed Robert, who was huddled up in a corner of the carriage. “It is my place, for I am all the man left to take care of her. When there is any thing hard to do, I must do it; and I will.”

“That is a brave boy,” said Savage.

“No, sir, I’m not brave. I tremble all over at the thought of telling her; but I’ll do it,” sobbed the boy.

“Poor little Joseph, too; how he will feel when he knows how it is. Oh, sir! you’d be sorry for little Joseph, if you knew how miserable this will make him. He won’t eat a morsel for days and days. He’s so delicate—Joseph is—like a girl.”

“Yes, Robert, I can understand that,” said Savage.

“It is all very pitiful; but, remember, your father died for his country!”

“Oh! I wish it had been me—I wish it had been me,” cried the boy, with a fresh outburst of grief.

They were at the door now, close by the gloomy entrance of that tenement-house, which was darker than ever to those unhappy young creatures. Savage went with them to the door. There he hesitated, reluctant to leave them. He feared to intrude on their grief.

“Shall I bid you good-night?” he said, addressing Robert rather than Anna.

“Let us go up alone,” said the boy, shivering. “Good-night, sir; Anna and I had better go up alone. We thank you all the same.”

Young Savage watched them sadly as they went up the dark staircase, hand-in-hand, slowly and mournfully, like criminals mounting a gallows. The young man’s heart went with them every step; and he returned home with strange tenderness brooding in all his thoughts.

Up one flight of stairs after another those two young creatures crept, pausing more than once to cling together and comfort each other. At last they reached the door of the room, and stood there breathless, without daring to turn the latch. A glow of light came through the crevices, and they could hear the childish voice of little Joseph chatting to his grandmother with unusual glee.

“Hark! I think I hear ’em; something stirred outside,” they heard him saying. “I’ll open the door—I’ll open the door.”

They heard the quick patter of his feet coming that way, and turned the latch.

“There, didn’t I say so? Here they are! Look, Anna! look at grandma in her new shawl. I made her put it on; and the cap, too. Isn’t she grand? Isn’t she just the handsomest, darlingest old grandma——”

“Joseph, dear,” said the old lady, “hush! hush! or we’ll never let you go out again.”

“But isn’t she splendid?” cried the boy; “and just look at me. A pocket here, and here, in the trousers, too; bright buttons everywhere. Oh! how I love that old man! Why, we’ve got a pint of peanuts left! Don’t she look like a lady?”

It was, indeed, a bright contrast from the dark staircase, and from the usual gloom of the apartment. Joseph had lighted two tallow-candles, and kindled a good fire, by which he had been a full hour admiring his grandmother, who had the soft worsted shawl over her shoulders, and a cap of delicate lace on her head. She did, in truth, look like a lady, every inch of her.

Joseph, also, was resplendent in his new clothes; the very buttons seemed to illuminate the poverty of the room with gleams of gold.

“I tell you what we’ll do,” said the happy child, pointing to his old garments piled on a chair, with the frontless cap lying on the top. “We’ll give those things to some poor boy that hasn’t got friends to take him to fairs and put him in pictures, like us. We mustn’t be mean, if we are rich.”

Robert went away to a corner of the room, and pretended to be very busy untying the bundle which held his own old clothes; but his hand shook so violently that he gave it up, and stood looking mournfully at his grandmother, with no heart to speak.

Anna was a long time in taking off her shawl and bonnet. She was afraid of revealing the sorrow that seemed to have turned her face into marble. Robert saw how she shrank away and shivered when those kind old eyes were turned upon her. He was, in truth, a brave boy, even with that terrible sense of desolation upon him. Lifting up his young head, and choking back the sobs that swelled in his throat, he went up to that dear old woman.

“Grandmother,” he said, laying one hand on her shoulder, and bending his face to meet her startled glance, for his voice troubled her, “grandmother, let me put my arms around you and lay your head on my shoulder. It reaches high enough. I am almost a man now. Let me kiss you, grandmother.”

She lifted up her sweet, old face, and the boy kissed it, his lips quivering all the time.

“Grandmother!”

“Well, darling!”

“Grandmother!”

“What is the matter, Robert? This has been such a pleasant night; but you seem troubled—what is it?”

The boy fell down upon his knees, and cried out in a wild burst of grief. “Oh, Anna, Anna! tell her that our father is killed! I cannot do it. Oh, I cannot!”

Anna came forward and fell on her knees by his side; but she said nothing, the mournful truth had struck home in the passionate words which Robert had uttered. The old woman clasped her withered hands quickly, and held them a moment locked and still. Then her head fell back, her meek eyes closed, and two great tears broke from under the lashes, and quivered away among the wrinkles on her cheeks. Her lips moved faintly; and the children, who knelt with their awe-stricken faces lifted piteously to hers, knew that she was praying.

Little Joseph crept close to his grandmother, and stole his arm around her neck. She bent down her head and rested it against his, praying still.

Never, in this world, was grief so intense, and yet so noiseless. At last the old woman unlocked her hands, and laid them on the young heads bowed before her.

“Children,” she said, in her meek, low voice, “God knows best what is good for us.”

“Oh, grandmother!” cried Robert, “shall we ever see him again?”

“All—all; and I very soon,” answered the old lady.

“Oh, grandma! don’t talk so; we could not live without you,” said Anna, in a burst of tender grief.

“Remember, my darlings, when death divides a family, it is not forever. How lonely it would be if no one we love were on the other side of the grave to meet us when we go there.”

“All the brave soldiers that died on that battle-field will bear him company,” said Robert.

“And mother—will she be there to meet him?” said little Joseph, in a low voice. “I remember her so well!”

Anna lifted her face from her grandmother’s lap, and, reaching up her lips, kissed the child.

“Yes, Joseph, dear, they are together now. It is only their poor children who are lonely.”

“And grandmother!” said Joseph.

“Grandmother can live or die, as God wills,” answered that meek, old woman. “Here, she has three dear, dear grandchildren. There, she has them.”

The children had almost stopped weeping. There was something almost holy in the calm of that gentle woman’s grief that subdued theirs into sadness.

“He died for his country!” said Robert, with a gleam of pride. “Died bravely, I know.”

“How glad mother must have been when he came,” whispered Joseph. “I wonder if they thought of us.”

“They will never cease thinking of us, darlings,” said Anna. “God help us! we are not alone. Thousands of helpless children are made orphans with us, all mourning as we do.”

“Oh! how sorry I am for them!” cried Robert. “Some may be little babies, with no brother that can do things to take care of them. You are better off than that, grandmother.”

“I dare say a great many are in a worse condition than we are, child. Some have no friends. Let us be thankful and patient.”

“Yes, grandmother, we will.”

“Now go to bed, boys, and try to sleep.”

“May we say our prayers here—the closet is so dark?”

“Yes, dear!”

“Will he know it? Will he hear us?” whispered Joseph.

“Yes, darling, I think so; I am sure of it.”

“That is almost like having him here,” was the gentle answer.

“He is here,” said Anna, smiling through her tears, “my heart is so still and quiet. It seems as if a dove were brooding over it.”

CHAPTER VII.
THE UNCLE FLEECED.

Two young men sat in the parlor of the Continental. It was after dark, and the chandelier was lighted over a small, round dinner-table, spread elaborately, at which the two young men had just completed a sumptuous repast.

They had both taken segars, as a luxurious conclusion to the meal; and, leaning back in the coziest of Turkish chairs, were chatting socially together, while clouds of thin purplish smoke curled and eddied lazily over the rich confusion of the table, where fruit glowing in silver baskets; claret jugs cut into sharp ridges of light like splintered ice; tiny glasses, amber-hued, green, or ruby red, half full of rich wines from many a choice vintage, were crowded close and huddled together like jewels on a queen’s toilet. Here and there the glossy whiteness of the tablecloth was stained, like a map, with a little sea of pink champagne, or oceans of claret, proving that there had been some unsteadiness of the hand at the latter portion of the banquet. Indeed, the cheeks of these two young men were hotly flushed with scarlet, which glowed through the smoke as it curled from their lips.

“So you are at last taken in and done for?” said one of the men, flirting the ashes from his segar with a little finger, on which a small diamond glittered like a spark of fire. “I don’t believe you are in earnest yet, and shan’t till you’ve slept on it at least forty-eight hours. What kind of an angel is she—blonde, or brunette, petite, or queenly?”

“No matter about that, Ward. I have no taste for showing up a woman’s points as if she were a racehorse. She is beautiful, and that should satisfy you.”

“But who is she?”

“That is the question. She is somebody that Madam Savage chooses to patronize without deigning to make explanations.”

“Did she introduce you?”

“Why, hardly. She just named us to each other, and hurried us off into a tableau, where I found myself kneeling to one of the loveliest creatures you ever saw, whose duty it was to scorn and avoid me with a tragic threat of throwing herself down a battlement of pasteboard at least six feet from the floor. Upon my soul, Ward, she was so beautiful in that position that I could have knelt forever, just to keep her in that one graceful poise; but in the midst of my enchantment away she plunged over the battlement, breaking up the picture in a twinkling, and leaving me on my knees startled out of my wits. The curtain fell, and all was confusion for a time. Before I could get out of the darkness, the girl was gone. I waited half an hour about the scene, hoping that she would appear again. She did come at last, but young Savage was with her, looking confoundedly handsome and tender. I could have knocked the fellow down with a will.”

“Did you see where they went?”

“Into a carriage—the madam’s own carriage—no hack. There was a boy with them, too.”

“That looks respectable.”

“But her dress, when she came out, was poor; a brown merino, or something of that sort, with a straw bonnet, pretty, but out of fashion.”

“And you wish to know something of this girl?”

“I will know something of her.”

“Why not ask Savage?”

“I tell you, the fellow loves her himself. I saw it in his eyes as he looked under that outre little bonnet.”

“And you?”

“Don’t question me in that way, Ward. Of course, I’m deucedly in love with her. You must find her out for me by some means.”

“That would be easy, if I were intimate with Mrs. Savage’s coachman. He would of course know where he drove the party.”

“Well, get intimate with the fellow.”

“I will think about it; but now to other business. You haven’t a check for a thousand about you—or two five hundred notes in greenbacks? That was about the amount of your losses the other night.”

“What, was it so much? I had no idea of it. No, my bank account has run down to nothing; and as for ready money, I dare not trust myself with it. This filmy paper is so handy to light segars with. One does that sort of thing occasionally. I did the other night. But I’ll tell you what, Ward, instead of paying you the thousand, I’ll introduce you to a fellow that’s throwing away his money like wild-fire, thousands on thousands in a week. One of those petroleum chaps, with wells that gush up fortunes in a day.”

“And what is the fellow doing here?”

“Spending his money.”

“Thank you for the offer of an introduction; but Gould, upon my word, I am in want of ready money.”

“My dear fellow, so am I.”

“I must have it!”

“Indeed, I hope you will not be disappointed.”

Gould leaned back as he spoke, rested his head on the crimson curve of his cozy chair, and emitted a soft curl of smoke from his finely-cut lips.

“Now, Gould, this is too bad,” said Ward, impatiently. “Remember, this is a debt of honor.”

“Can’t help it, my dear fellow! Haven’t got ready cash enough to pay for these segars; to say nothing of the wine, and so forth, that a fellow must have.”

“But there is your uncle. He refuses you nothing.”

“Hark! that is his step; speak of—— Ah! my dear uncle, I am so glad to see you. Called at the house this morning, but you were out.”

The person who entered to receive this greeting, was the old man whom we have seen at his dinner in that solitary house, and who afterward gave so much happiness to the soldier’s orphans in the fair. He entered the room with a grim smile on his face, and stood near the door a moment with his brows bent, and his sharp eyes turned upon the sumptuous disarray of that dinner-table. The smile on his thin lip turned to a sneer as he took in the picture. Tiny birds, with their bones half picked; fragments of a delicious dessert; and all that rich coloring of half-drained wine-glasses, gave an idea of satiety at a glance, which brought out the disagreeable points in the old man’s character, and brought the color to Gould’s face.

“Take this seat, uncle,” cried Gould, starting up, eager to divert the old man’s attention from the debris of his little feast. “You will find it comfortable. Let me take charge of your hat and cane.”

The old man looked at his nephew with a sharp gleam of the eye, and drawing a chair to the table, laid his hat and cane on the carpet. Then he took up the glasses, one after another, and tasted their contents with great deliberation, occasionally pouring a little from the bottles and decanters, while he muttered to himself, “Champagne, Burgundy, sherry, claret, old Madeira, and the Lord knows what, with roasted canary birds, and peaches of ice by way of substantials. Wholesome eating for a young man.”

Gould pushed his chair away, and came to the table; all his indolent composure gone, and with the hot-red of a school-boy on his handsome cheeks.

“Shall I ring, uncle? Will you try one of these birds served hot? They are very fine.”

“No; thank you, nephew; they are too expensive eating for an old fellow like me.”

“Too expensive for you, uncle—the idea amuses me.”

“Remember, young gentleman,” said the old millionaire, with grim pleasantry, “that I have no rich uncle to depend on. A moderate glass of port, or claret, now and then, is as much as I can afford. But, then, it is so different with you.”

Gould bent over the old man’s chair, and whispered with deprecating humility,

“Uncle, don’t be so hard upon me before my friend.”

“Your friend!” repeated the old man, aloud. “So this is one of your friends. Let me take a good look at him.”

With cruel deliberation he took out a pair of gold spectacles, fitted them to his eyes, and searched Ward from head to foot with one of his sharp, prolonged glances. The young fellow colored, winced, and at last turned fairly around in his chair, muttering, “Hang the old fellow! his eyes seize on me like a pair of pincers.”

“Gould,” said the uncle, folding up his glasses, and shutting them in their steel case with a loud snap of the spring, “Gould, I congratulate you.”

“What for, uncle?”

“That this exquisite young gentleman is your friend. He does credit to your choice—great credit. Such honors do not often drop into our humble way. Sir, I am your servant.”

The old satirist arose, and making a profound bow, sat down again, where he could see Ward’s face burning like fire.

“I found your note at the counting-house, Gould, speaking of the serious nature of your illness, and came up to see if a consultation of doctors would be necessary.”

“That was written this morning when I was seriously ill. You remember, Ward?”

“Oh, yes! Upon my honor, sir, Gould was desperate with—with a—that is, neuralgia in the head. You would have been quite concerned about him. We tried chloroform—a great thing that chloroform. Did you ever try it, sir?”

“So the chloroform cured my nephew. I am delighted to hear it. That is it upon the mantle-piece, I dare say. Give me a little.”

The old tormentor pointed to a flask of Bohemian glass, dashed with gold, that stood on the mantle-piece.

“That, uncle? Oh! that is extract of violet. It sometimes serves to carry off a headache better than any thing else. Will you try it?”

The old man held out his hand for the bottle; took a great red silk handkerchief from his pocket, and emptied half the extract into its folds, scenting the room like a violet bank in May.

“Your note, Gould, asked for money—an unusual thing; so unusual, that I brought the check in my pocket.”

At the mention of a check, Ward started round in his chair, and fixed a hungry glance on that hard, old face. A check! His thousand dollars might not be so very far off, after all.

Gould bent eagerly over his uncle’s chair.

“You are too good, uncle. I—I——”

“Oh! not at all, Gould. You deserve all that I am going to do for you—richly deserve it. Give me a light while I sign the check; thank you. There now, see how careless. You haven’t a stamp about you, I fear.”

“Oh, yes!” cried Ward. “Here is one.”

He reached over in handing the stamp, and caught a glance at the amount.

“By Jove! it’s for two thousand!” he said, inly. “Gould shall go halves before I leave him.”

The old man smiled one of his iron smiles as he pressed the stamp in its place. Then he signed the check, with a broad, old-fashioned flourish under the name.

“Will that do?” he asked, lifting his face to that of his nephew, who bent over his shoulder delighted.

“Is the figure large enough?”

“Oh, uncle! It is more than I dared hope for.”

“Not at all, Gould. Remember, I filled it in thinking you ill. No, no! do not put out the taper yet. What a pretty stand you have for it; filigree gold, as I am a miserly old sinner. That makes a pretty blaze, doesn’t it?”

Gould made a snatch at the check, but it was in a light blaze; and the old man held it till it burned down to his fingers, and fell in black flakes over the taper, and the daintily warm gold that held it.

Ward jumped up from his chair with an oath on his lips. Gould turned white, and staggered back.

“Uncle, uncle! I owed every dollar of that money,” he cried out. “My honor is at stake.”

The old man picked up his hat and cane with silent deliberation.

“Sir. Sir, I say! Gould owes me half the money; and, by Jove! I must have it,” cried Ward.

“Owes you! What for?”

This curt question made the young gambler start and bethink himself.

“What for? What for? Why for money I lent him the other night for the Soldier’s Fair. That nephew of yours, sir, is one of the most benevolent, tender-hearted fellows that the sun ever shone on. That night he met me in front of the fair, really distressed.

“‘Ward,’ said he—my name is Ward, sir. Gould forgot to present me, but Ward is my name—‘Ward,’ said he, ‘I’ve just done a foolish thing. You’ll say so, when I tell you what it is——’

“Said I, interrupting him, ‘I’ll lay five to one that you’ve been at your old tricks—emptying both pockets to help some miserable soldier’s family out of trouble. But it’s in you, this tender-heartedness; and all I can say will never drive it out.’

“‘No,’ says Gould, ‘you’re wrong there. It is no family this time; but you know a draft has been made.’

“‘Yes, I know,’ said I, ‘and you have been drawn.’

“‘Wrong again,’ says your nephew. ‘But every man owes a life to his country. I cannot serve; it would break my dear uncle’s heart should I be killed; and he is too good a man for me to give him one moment’s pain.’ I beg your pardon, Gould, for saying this; but truth will out, and your uncle will forgive me.

“‘Well, what have you done?’ said I.

“‘Simply this,’ replied Gould, blushing like a girl. ‘I’ve given every cent that I have on hand to a brave fellow to take my place in the ranks and fight my battles. It’s a mean way of doing things; but I could not leave my uncle, not—not even for my country; and Burns was determined to go.’”

“Who? What name did you say?” cried the old man, grasping his cane hard.

“Burns, sir. Burns was the name I used.”

“A man who left two boys, a young girl, and an old woman behind to suffer while he fought? Was that the person?”

“Yes, sir; no doubt of it. Gould would never tell you of it; but these were the facts.”

“How long was this ago?”

“I—I—how long was it, Gould? I know when you told me, but it was before that.”

“I cannot say. All this is unauthorized, sir. I never dreamed that he would tell this story. Indeed——”

“I cannot say the exact time,” cut in Ward; “and he won’t. But it was long enough ago to keep him in hot water month after month. You have been very liberal to him, I know, sir; but it has all gone that way. ‘Soldiers’ widows, soldiers’ children—they must be fed,’ he argues. ‘What if these things do plunge me in debt; if my uncle knew, he would not condemn me.’

“‘Then tell him,’ said I; ‘tell him at once, and relieve yourself from all embarrassment.’

“‘No,’ he said, ‘that would be making him responsible; that would be forcing my charities on him. Only help me, as a friend should, and I will find my way out of this trouble. He is generous—munificent—this good uncle of mine, let men say what they please. Some day he will give me all the money I want; and while he thinks that I spend it in extravagance, perhaps, I shall have the satisfaction of knowing where it goes, and who it helps.’

“The very day that your nephew told me this I lent him a thousand dollars; five hundred of that sum went for subscriptions in less than an hour. The rest would have been given to a family that composed the most touching picture of distress that I ever saw—but I prevented it. I would not let him go home penniless.”

“Was it a tableau within the fair? Did an old woman—a lady, every inch of her—sit in the picture? Was there a young girl, and two boys—bright, handsome little fellows—crouching at her feet?”

The old man asked these questions eagerly. His hand worked around the top of his staff; his eyes kindled under those bent brows.

“Yes, sir. Yes, that is the very family.”

“And you gave the father of this family a thousand dollars when he went to the wars, Gould?”

Gould shook his head. “I did not say so, uncle. I never would have told you so.”

Ward broke in upon him with breathless haste.

“But he did it, sir—he did it.”

“I saw this family. I was at the fair that night,” said the old man, with a touch of pathos in his voice. “Can you tell me where they live?”

“No, I cannot. Doubtless they have been moving from place to place since then, as poverty sent them.”

“But with that money they should not have been so poor,” said the old man with a return of keen intelligence.

“But it did not go to them, sir,” said Ward, hastily. “This man Burns was deep in debt, and the money went to clear him.”

“Ward! Ward!” exclaimed Gould, starting up; “this is too much. I will not permit it.”

“Be silent, Gould!—be silent! I ought to know this. You should have told me yourself; perhaps I should have been glad to help you,” interposed the uncle, with strange gentleness in his voice. “I may condemn such extravagance as this. I do condemn and repudiate it utterly. Extravagance is always wicked, coarse, unbearable. I was angry——”

“Not with your nephew, I trust, for that which is altogether my fault,” interposed Ward. “I confess to it, my tastes are ruinously luxurious. Gould would never have thought of any thing so absurd; but I was lonely, and asked leave to share his parlor awhile. The unfortunate dinner was served by my order, and at my expense. As for the pretty gimcracks, it is my fancy. I like to have such things around me. But, my dear sir, you must not think me effeminate and worthless, for all that.”

The old man’s face brightened wonderfully after this speech. He dropped his cane and placed his hat on the carpet once more.

“Bring back the pen and ink! Give me another stamp! Here, Gould, take that. But, remember, find out where this family lives. I wish to know—I must know.”

Gould took the check, which rattled like a dead leaf in the old man’s hand.

“Uncle! uncle!” he said, “I ought not to take this; I have no right.”

The old man snatched up his hat and cane, while these honest words were on his nephew’s lips, and left the room.

When he was gone, Ward snatched the check from Gould, and leaping on the seat of his chair, brandished it on high.

“What author ever got so much for a single romance, I wonder!” he cried. “I say, Gould, I must turn my attention to literature, or the stage. Did ever a lie out of whole cloth tell so famously. Pour out bumpers, my fine fellow, and let us drink the old fellow’s health!”

“Be silent, sir!” Gould’s voice trembled with passion. There was too much good in him for a relish of such companionship, when it took that form of broad dishonesty. “Be silent, sir! if you would not have me hate you, and myself also.”

With these hot words the young men parted.

CHAPTER VIII.
BRAVE YOUNG HEARTS.

The orphan brothers sat together under the shadow of a garden wall, talking with earnest energy, as if their young lives were in the subject under discussion. A tender sadness lay on their faces; tears now and then broke through their words; and more than once their small hands clasped lovingly, as if companionship gave sweetness even to grief. A carriage drove by as they talked, scattering drops of mud on the sleeve of Joseph’s jacket. Robert brushed it off with great care, and patted the child on his shoulder in finishing.

“Now you see how it is, Joe, you and I are the men of the family. Grandma is splendid at mending and darning, and making things go a long way; but she can’t earn money. So it all comes on sister Anna. Isn’t she a beautiful darling? Wasn’t she stupendous that night in the turban and red velvet jacket?”

“She’s always good and handsome,” said Joseph, with touching simplicity; “but I like her best in that brown dress and the straw bonnet. She didn’t quite seem like our sister in the other things.”

“But she outshone every one of them, Joseph.”

“Yes, I know; but yet she wasn’t exactly like our sister Anna.”

“I was proud of her. It did me good to walk by her side. I tell you, Joseph, Anna was born for a lady.”

“So was grandma. She is a lady.”

“She’s a dear, old blessed grandma, she is!” cried Robert. “If it hadn’t been for her my heart would have burst. It was wonderful how she quieted us all down. I wonder if the angels are more still and sweet than she is? Oh, Joseph! it isn’t many soldiers’ children that have a woman like that to comfort them when bad news comes; but we came out here all alone to have a sort of private convention about things in general. As I was saying, Anna is too pretty for a working-girl; men turn round and look at her in the street when she goes out. I’ve seen it, and it made me so mad that I’ve longed to knock them down. Once I did stamp on a big fellow’s boots, and it did me good to hear him cry out, ‘Oh!’ He never knew why it was done; but I knew, and his Oh! made me dance with joy on the pavement. What business have strangers to be looking at her?”

“She doesn’t mind ’em—she doesn’t know it herself,” said Joseph, lifting his soft eyes appealingly, as if some one had been blaming him. “She never looks up, nor seems to notice.”

“I know that. Of course, she doesn’t. I’m not saying she does; but she’s very, very pretty, Joseph—too pretty for a poor man’s child; and now that she’s only a poor soldier’s orphan, who will take care of her, if we don’t?”

“But I am so small, I shouldn’t even dare to stamp on a big fellow’s boots. It isn’t her fault if she’s so pretty, you know, Robert. I dare say she’d help it if she could.”

“This isn’t exactly an idea of mine,” answered Robert. “I never should have had the sense to think of it, but I heard father grieve about Anna being so handsome before he went away to that glorious death of his! It troubled him then—and it troubles me now.”

“Still I like to see her so pretty,” said Joseph, smiling, “it makes my heart swell here.”

Joseph put one hand on his breast, and sighed, as sensitive people will, over a remembrance of beauty in any thing.

“Well, brother, it is natural. I love grandma for her beauty, too. Other people, I dare say, think her a little, old woman; but I know there is something more than that, just as I feel when a rose is near by its scent. How lovely she looked that night when we knelt around her! Anna is pretty—but grandma looks so good. Her beauty seems to have turned to light, which shines from her eyes and makes her old mouth so lovely. I can’t just say what I mean, Joseph, but there is something about grandma that is sweeter than beauty.”

Joseph had lifted his young face to that of his more ardent brother, with a look of tender interest in all that he was saying that seemed beyond his years.

“Yes,” he said, with a sigh, “I feel that when grandma looks at me. Besides, she never hurts one. Her hand is so soft and light, it seems like a bird’s wing brushing you. Then she steps so softly. Dear, old grandma!”

The boys looked into each other’s faces, and saw dimly though unbidden tears, of which the elder was instantly ashamed.

“Why, Joseph, this is children’s play. We came here to talk like men, not whimper like babies. Wipe up—wipe up! that’s a brave little fellow, and let us go to business at once.”

“Well, I’m ready,” answered Joseph, wiping his eyes. “What shall we say next?”

“Joseph, these two lovely women—for they are lovely, we both agree on that—have got to live. All hopes from our brave father is dead and gone.”

“I know it! Oh! I know it!”

“Don’t cry, Joseph—that is, if you can possibly help it; but listen. You and I must support the family.”

“You and I? Oh, Robert! think what a little shaver I am!”

“Yet, I’ve thought of that over and over again; but in this world there is something that every one can do. Think how soon little chickens begin to scratch up worms for themselves.”

“Yes, Robert; but then the worms are about, and they know where to find ’em.”

“So is money about, and we must learn how to find it.”

“But what can I do? Studying double lessons won’t bring money, or I’d get them every night of my life.”

“No,” said Robert; “we can have no more school.”

“No more school?”

“Both of us must go to work in earnest.”

“I will be in earnest—but how?”

“Joseph Burns, I’m going to make a newsboy of you.”

“A newsboy of me?”

Joseph was absolutely frightened, his eyes grew large, his lips trembled. “Of me?”

“Yes, little brother. It must be a splendid business. I saw one of those chaps with a whole jacket full of money; besides, it’s a healthy occupation, and leads into a literary way of life.”

“I—I would try it, Robert, if I only knew how to begin,” faltered the gentle child, with tears in his eyes.

“Begin! Why you’d learn in no time.”

“Would I?”

“Of course; why not?—and bring home your fifty cents a day, clear profit, in less than no time.”

“I—I’ll try, of course. I’ll do my best.”

“Why, how you shake! Do keep that poor little mouth still. Nobody’s going to hurt you, Joseph, dear.”

“But—but have I got voice enough?”

“Voice! You little trooper, I should think you had. Can’t you yell, oh! no?”

Joseph laughed through his tears.

“I’d like to do it.”

“Well, that’s settled. As for the schooling, grandma is a lady, and could teach, if they ever let old ladies do that. Why, she’s grand in figures, and writes beautifully. You shall study with her night and morning—so will I. Work shall not cheat us out of our education, you know.”

Joseph began to brighten up considerably after this suggestion. He had his dreams, poor boy, and loved books with a passionate longing. The very idea that boys sold a species of literature, went far to reconcile him with their noisy pursuit.

“Yes,” he said, cheerfully, “that would be almost like school.”

“Besides all that,” persisted Robert, “a boy that has learned to read and write, who can cipher a little, and so on, must be a poor creature if he can’t teach himself. Reading and spelling is the key which unlocks every thing else.”

“Besides, I can read the newspapers at odd times,” said Joseph.

“Certainly you can. But I tell you what, Joe, if there comes news of a battle, and any poor boy looks at you longingly, hand out a paper for nothing. I know what it is—I know what it is.”

“I’d do that—you know I would. But, Robert, I wish you were going along. How we would make the streets ring.”

“I’m thinking of something else, Joseph. If that fails, perhaps I shall take the lead with you.”

“What are you thinking of, brother?”

“You know that old man, Joseph?”

“Yes, I know—how can you and I ever forget him?” answered Joseph, glancing proudly down at his new clothes.

“I mean to offer myself at his place of business as an errand-boy, or something like that. I think he rather liked us, Joseph.”

“Yes, he did; I’m sure of that.”

“Well, I shall only ask for work.”

“So I would, Robert; and I’ll come down every day with the papers, you know.”

“That’ll be jolly. Hark! there comes a fellow along. What a voice he has! Splendid business for the lungs. I’ll make a man of you, Joe.”

The newsboy came up the side-walk, calling out his papers, and looking lazily from window to window. He had nothing very special that day, and was taking the world easy, scorning to lay out all his powers for less than a battle of fifty thousand strong. He came opposite the two boys, who were watching him so earnestly, and, thinking that they might be in want of a paper, crossed over to where they sat.

“Want a paper—morning Ledger?”

“No, no! we were only talking about papers; not in the least wishing to buy them,” said Joseph, blushing crimson.

“Oh! that’s all,” said the boy, settling the bundle of papers under his arm, and resting one shoulder against the wall. “Seen you afore, haven’t I, my jolly rover? Wanted me to sell you a paper for half price one night? I remember them eyes of yourn. Jerusalem, didn’t they look wild!”

“I—I was so anxious, so——”

“Don’t talk about it. I feel the blood biling into my face only with the thought. I never was so mean before, and don’t expect to be agin. Will you take half a dozen Ledgers now, and make up? I went back to give you one. You won’t believe me, but I did—you’d gone, though. Didn’t get a wink of sleep that night, I felt so mean. ‘What if his father was in that battle?’ says I to myself. ‘What if he wanted to look over the list, and hadn’t got another copper? You’re a beast,’ said I to myself; ‘a brute beast of the meanest kind! A generous Newfoundland dog, now, would a given that boy the paper without a cent; but you—oh! get away, a kennel is too good for you!’ That was the way I pitched into myself all night long; but I got over it. Business was good, and it drove sich idees out of my head. But the sight of you here, huddled agin the wall, like two rabbits in a box, riled me up agin myself again. If you don’t want the paper, suppose we go round the corner and pitch into a pile of oysters. Sales are slack, and a feller may as well enjoy himself. Besides, I shall feel amost friendly with myself again if you’ll let me treat once. Precious nice mince-pies to be had if oysters don’t suit that little shaver, and sich peanuts.”

Robert got up and took Joseph by the hand. “Yes, we will go,” he said. “My brother, here, is thinking of the literary business for himself; and I’d like to talk with some one who understands it.”

“The what?” asked the newsboy, opening his mouth in vague astonishment. “What business did you say he was thinking of?”

“Selling newspapers.”

“That delicate little trooper, with eyes like a girl’s, and lips that tremble if you look at him. He’d never do!—never!”

“But he is strong; runs like a deer, and shouts like any thing,” said Robert.

The newsboy faced Joseph squarely, and examined him with keen attention.

“Handsome as a picture,” he muttered; “and looks as if he could run. Just give a holler, my boy; I want to know how far a gentleman could hear you if he was shut up and shaving himself for church on Sunday morning.”

Joseph stood up, half frightened to death, and gave out a dismal cry, while his face turned from crimson to white in the attempt.

“Don’t be afraid, we ain’t a college faculty, we aint. There’s voice enough in the little codger’s chest, if he wasn’t too scared to let it out. Now let’s see your fist clenched—savagely, remember.”

Joseph clenched his right hand into as formidable a fist as he could make of the delicate material, and held it out.

“Whew!” exclaimed the newsboy, with a comical glance at the tiny fist. “Wouldn’t knock down a canary bird; but mine will—so what’s the use talking.”

“It’s small, but I’m strong,” Joseph burst forth. “Ask Robert if I haven’t pummelled him splendidly. If anybody was to hurt him, now, wouldn’t I fight!”

“It ain’t to be expected that you could do a great deal among the boys; but they’re generous, as a common thing, and only pitch into fellers that can pitch back; besides, I’m on hand, and they know me.”

“And you’d be kind to him?” said Robert. “He’s all the brother I’ve got; and you see what a tender, nice little fellow he is. We’ve got a sister and a grandmother to support, and we mean to do it, Joe and I do. Don’t we Joe?”

Joseph lifted his flushed face and sparkling eyes to the tall newsboy.

“Yes, we mean to do it, and we will,” he said, with gentle firmness.

The tall boy threw up his bundle of papers, and caught it again as it whirled downward, in evidence of his warm approval.

“That’s the time o’day! Here’s the right sort of stuff done up in little parcels,” he shouted. “Now look here, you feller,” he added, turning to Robert, “I’ll enter into a sort of partnership with you, and we’ll join hands on it at once. I’ll take this little chap under my wing, and set him a going in the business. How much money can you put in?”

“Three dollars,” answered Robert.

“That isn’t a stunning capital; but then I began and set myself up on fifty cents—but that was in specie times. What I was going to say is this, I’ll stand by this little feller tooth and nail. I’ll take him down to the press-rooms myself, and get his stock put up; and if any of the old stagers attempt to hustle him, or sich like, because he wears bright buttons, and looks like a gentleman’s son, let ’em try it, that’s all. They’ve felt the weight of these mud-grapplers afore this, and know how much there is in ’em. Why, I’ve been in the business three years; but these extra times is a wearing me out, and my run grows longer and broader every day. He shall have a part of it—all the fancy work. Why them eyes, looking up to the windows where ladies sit in their muslin dresses and ribbons in the afternoon, would set ’em to beckoning you up the steps like fifty. They don’t take to tall fellows like me, as women ought to. Yes, yes! I’ll give you the fancy work, and no mistake. My! what purty girls I’ve seen looking out of the parlor doors when some gentleman has beckoned me into the hall. Molly! they’d let you go right in—shouldn’t wonder a bit!”

“I—I should rather not,” said Joseph, shrinking modestly from this magnificent idea. “Excepting grandma and Anna, I don’t know much about ladies.”

“Live and learn! Live and learn! I only wish them eyes and that face belonged to me, wouldn’t I make ’em bring in the coppers and five cent greenbacks. But then you are a little fellow, and don’t know the value of such things.”

“I only want to earn money for them,” said Joseph. “I’m little, and don’t know a great deal; but if you will be kind enough to let me run with you a day or so, then, perhaps, I might learn.”

“And what are you going into?” asked the newsboy, addressing Robert.

“I—I was thinking of going into the mercantile way,” answered Robert, blushing crimson; “an errand-boy, or something of that sort.”

“Know how to read?”

“Oh, yes!”

“Fine print, and all?”

“Yes, all kinds of print.”

“You don’t say so. Next thing you’ll be telling me that you can write.”

“Write? Of course I can! Don’t I look old enough?”

“Old enough? Why I’m twice your size.”

“And can’t write?” inquired Robert.

“Not a pot-hook; tried once, but broke down on the z’s—couldn’t curl ’em up to save my life; but I can count, and read headings—and that’s enough for the business. But you’re bound to be a gentleman, anybody can see that; sich an edecation isn’t to be flung away on the street. What if I know the place what would suit you?”

“No, you don’t say that?” cried Robert, beaming with hope.

“But I do, though. Gould & Co. wants a boy. I’ve got acquainted with the old gentleman within the last few days. He buys lots of papers—every extra. Anxious about somebody, I reckon. The other day he came after me full chisel, with his hat off, and the wind whistling through his gray hair like sixty. The way he snatched at my papers and pitched a dollar bill, into my hand, was exciting. Wouldn’t stop for the change—a thing I never knew of him in my whole life—but hurried back, and shut the door of his great, dark house with a bang.”

“Poor man!” said Robert, mournfully; “perhaps he had a son, or some one, in the army, that he loved.”

“Just as likely as not,” continued the newsboy, “for, as I was going round the block a second time, he came out of his house looking as white as a ghost. I saw his face plain by the street lamp; and he went off almost upon a run, like a crazy man. Something had struck him right on the heart, I’m sure of that. But come along, if you have a mind to try your luck with the old feller. I’ll trust this little shaver with my papers till we come back.”

CHAPTER IX.
THE NEWSBOY.

Little Joseph received the bundle of newspapers offered to him, flushing crimson under the trust—and the two lads went off together.

“Don’t go off the block,” said the newsboy, looking over his shoulder. “Walk up and down, and who knows but a little business may drop in.”

Joseph nodded, smiled, and settled the bundle of papers under his arm; at which the boy gave an encouraging flourish of the hand, and disappeared around the corner; while Robert paused a moment, and sent more than one anxious glance back upon his brother.

Joseph waited till they were both out of sight, then gathered up his courage and began marching up and down the side-walk with a bold step, but stopped still, and turned his eyes away in dread if any one approached him. Once or twice he attempted to cry out, but that was when no one was within hearing. Even then the voice fell back in his throat, and he looked around half frightened to death, terrified lest some customer should come upon him suddenly.

“Oh, dear! I shall never do it! There is no use in trying!” he muttered, disconsolately. “If it was only play, now, what a shout I could give. Goodness! there comes a man! If grandmother was only here, I do believe I Should hide behind her dress. But there isn’t a place, and he comes on so fast. Dear me!”

The man was, indeed, walking fast, and seemed a good deal excited. Joseph made a brave attempt at boldness, and marched toward him, blushing at his own audacity.

“Ledger! Dispatch!”

The words broke from his lips in a frightened cry; he trembled all over, and stood still, terrified by the sound, faint and hoarse as it was.

The very singularity of his cry drew the young man’s attention, and he turned quickly.

“Give me a paper,” he said, taking some money from his pocket-book. “Any one—I have no choice. Why, what a young thing it is—so well dressed, too! Selling newspapers must be a prosperous business, my little man?”

“I—I haven’t got a cent of change. What shall I do?” cried Joseph, looking wistfully at the twenty-five cents which loomed before him. “Please, sir, I never did this before, and don’t know how.”

“Never did it before,” cried the young man, smiling upon the lad. “I thought you looked above the business. Then you are such a mere baby; keep the money. By the way, you seem a sharp little fellow, and I can put you in the way of earning twice that amount.”

“Can you, sir? I’m glad of that. What shall I do?” cried the boy, all in a glow of delight.

“Nothing very difficult. Just keep along this garden wall, turn the corner, and you will see the house it belongs to. Watch the door till a young lady in a brown merino dress and straw bonnet comes out; follow her where she goes. Be sure you take the papers, that she may not think it strange; take sharp notice of the house she enters; then come back here at dusk, and I will give you a dollar bill.”

“A greenback, sir?”

“Yes; a new greenback, with Mr. Chase’s picture on the end.”

Joseph gathered up his papers in breathless haste; his cheeks glowed, his eyes sparkled with delight.

“I’ll do it—I’ll do it!” All at once his countenance fell, and his small figure drooped in abject disappointment.

“No, I can’t,” he said, with tears in his eyes. “These papers belong to another boy, and he told me not to leave the block.”

“That’s unfortunate,” said the young man, smiling at Joseph’s evident distress. “But you can stand at the corner and tell me which way she turns?”

“Yes, I can do that.”

“Better still,” cried the young man, struck by a sudden idea. “She had a parcel in her hand, and appears as if she took in work. Speak to her as she comes out; tell her that you know a person who wants some fine sewing done, and ask her where you shall bring it to. She’ll trust that face, no fear about that. So you shall earn the money, and keep that promise about leaving the block.”

“I—I should be a little ashamed to speak to a strange lady, sir.”

“Oh, nonsense! She isn’t exactly a lady, you know, only a sewing-girl. So there need be no trouble about speaking to her; I shouldn’t hesitate to do it myself. Just find out where she lives; but not a word about me, remember, and the dollar is yours.”

“I—I’ll try, sir,” was the faltering answer.

“That’s a brave fellow! Come here, just at dark, tell me all about it, and get your money.”

The young man passed on as he spoke, leaving the money in Joseph’s hand, forgetting, also, to take his paper.

“This is mine, all mine; he gave it to me,” thought the boy, gazing upon the money. “What a splendid man he is—and yet his eyes. I don’t like his eyes, they seem so tired. I wonder is he sick, or can’t he sleep at night? It looks like that. I wish he hadn’t asked me to do that other thing. How shall I speak to her? Not a lady because she sews! Why, grandma patches and mends, and turns, and washes, too; but I know she’s a lady, every inch of her. Then there’s sister Anna—isn’t she a lady, I wonder? I don’t like that man. He hasn’t the least idea what a lady is; I know he hasn’t.”

Joseph moved along the garden wall as these thoughts filled his mind, and found himself at the corner in view of a large white marble house, with a good deal of ornamental ground lying around it. A flight of marble steps led to the side-walks, and scrolls of carved work ran down each side white as drifted snow.

Robert would have recognized this house at once; but little Joseph had never seen it before, and stood gazing upon the steps, wondering if the lady, who was not a lady, because she took in sewing, would ever come out.

The boy had been watching, perhaps ten minutes, when a female came gliding down those marble steps, in a brown dress and straw bonnet, that seemed strangely familiar to him. He started forward and, uttering a glad cry, met his sister Anna face to face.

“Why Joseph, is it you? Dear child, how flushed his face is! What are you doing with all these papers, dear? Why, you look like a little newsboy!”

“So I am, Anna—that is, I’m going to be, and earn lots of money. I’ve hollered out papers once, and it didn’t frighten me very much. Some day, Anna, I’ll come and call out, ‘Ledger! Ledger!’ right under your window; that is, when I can do it without shaking so.”

Anna’s face had brightened beautifully when she first saw the boy; but you could see that tears lay close to her eyes as he ceased speaking.

“Poor child! poor, dear child!” she said, laying one hand on his shoulder, “perhaps we may come to this; but I hope not—I hope not.”

“See! I have got twenty-five cents already,” cried the lad, holding up the tiny note. “A gentleman gave it to me, and forgot to take his paper; and—and—oh, sister! I forgot; he wants to find out where you live, and has got lots of fine work for you. He is in such a hurry to have it done, that he offered to give me a dollar only to find out where to send it. Only think! But then he didn’t know that I was your brother. A dollar for finding you out! Isn’t that splendid, Anna?”

“Joseph, dear, what are you talking about?” said Anna, a little startled by this intelligence. “No gentleman can want me.”

“Oh, yes! there does. Only—only, now I think of it, he said you wasn’t a lady; and I know you are, and will tell him so to his face; that is, I would, only I am such a little boy.”

“Poor darling! It is of no consequence what any one thinks about us—so don’t let it fret you; but tell me, what was this man like? Did you ever see him before?”

“No, indeed, sister Anna, I never did.”

“Not on the night when we made pictures?”

“No; he wasn’t there.”

“It is strange,” muttered the young girl, a little troubled. “What could any one want of me?”

“He said that it was work he wanted done,” answered the boy, earnestly. “Perhaps Mrs. Savage has told him how nicely you stitch, and embroider, and hem handkerchiefs.”

“I think not,” said Anna, quite seriously. “Was he a tall man, Joseph?”

“No; not near so tall or large as Mr. Savage. But there he come—there he comes.”

Anna looked across the street, and saw a rather small young man, with marks of age on his features; which years had never given them; and those heavy, dim eyes, which grow out of sleepless nights and unsettled habits of life.

“It is a stranger; I never saw him before,” said Anna, in a low, frightened voice. “Come home with me, Joseph—come away at once. He looks this way, as if he were coming over.”

“No, he won’t. He’s walking on; don’t be frightened, Anna. He’s a very nice gentleman, and only wants some work done.”

“No, no! Come with me, child!”

“I mustn’t till Robert and the boy comes back; the papers are not mine, you know.”

“True, true; but come home the moment you can, dear; and tell that man nothing about me. I am afraid of him.”

“I won’t tell a word, Anna; nothing shall make me. There, he’s coming back again.”

Anna caught one glance of the man and walked on.

The moment she was out of sight, the young man came across the street, taking out his port-monaie as he approached the boy.

“Here is your money,” he said. “Now tell me where the young lady lives—where I can send the work?”

“She doesn’t want any work, sir!”

“Won’t you take the money, my boy?”

“No, sir!”

“Why not?”

“Because that young lady is my sister, and told me not.”

CHAPTER X.
ROBERT GETS A SITUATION.

Robert Burns and his new friend made their way into the business part of the city. They entered a large warehouse, and passed through it into a back room—found a young man writing notes at one of the desks. He looked up, saw the two boys, and suspended his writing long enough to question them with his eyes.

“This is a boy that I want Mr. Gould to engage, sir. Where is the old gentleman?” said the newsboy, designating Robert by a wave of his not over-clean hand. “True as steel, sir, and honest as a morning paper, sir. Where’s the boss?—perhaps you don’t know,” he added, eyeing an antique seal ring on the gentleman’s white hand. “New feller in these premises, any way. I never see you afore.”

The young man went on with his writing, and took no apparent heed of this rather elaborate address. His pen ran over a sheet of note-paper with a quick and noiseless motion, that filled the newsboy with admiring astonishment. Then the note was folded, and something placed with it in the long, narrow envelope, which rustled under the touch of those fingers, silkily, like a bank-note. Then a wax taper, coiled up like a garter-snake, was lighted, a drop of pale green wax fell from it to the note; and while the young man stamped the seal with his antique ring, he seemed to become suddenly conscious that the boys were gazing on him with no common curiosity.

“Well,” he said, smiling down upon the seal as he examined the impression he had made, “what is it? Did you want something, boys?”

“Yes, sir, that is just it. We want to see the old boss!”

“The old what?” cried the young gentleman, with a look of comic astonishment—“the old what?”

“The boss, sir; the old gentleman who runs this ere machine!”

“Oh! you mean the governor. Too late; sailed for Europe yesterday.”

“But he told me I might look up a boy for him the very last time I brought the weeklies here; and I’ve found just the chap.”

“Oh! the errand-boy. So the governor commissioned you—just like him. We do want a handy lad, I think. I say, Smith.”

Smith came in from a little den of a room at the left, with a pen behind his ear.

“Did you call, sir?”

“Did the governor say any thing about engaging a boy?”

“Yes, sir. He was particularly anxious to get a good one, smart and honest.”

“With all my heart, if he can find the paragon. Well, what do you think of that little fellow?” The young man pointed his pen carelessly at Robert without troubling himself to look that way.

Smith looked at the boy keenly, who blushed crimson under his gaze.

“He seems modest, at least, and looks intelligent,” was the kind answer.

“Then you like him? Come here, sir, and answer me a few questions.”

Robert moved up to the desk, and lifted his honest eyes to the young man’s face.

“How old are you, my fine fellow?”

“Twelve, sir, and going on thirteen.”

“Rather young, isn’t he?” said the gentleman, appealing to Smith.

“That will not matter so much, Mr. Gould. He seems healthy, and is intelligent.”

“You like him, then?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Robert, with tears in his eyes. “I’m much obliged, and—and——”

“That will do—take him on, Smith; but stay a minute. Are you acquainted with the city?”

“Pretty well, sir.”

“Can you read writing?”

“Oh, yes!”

“And write yourself?”

“Yes, I can write.”

“See if you can read that.”

Gould handed the note he had just directed, and Robert read the address.

“J. Ward, Girard House.”

“That will do. Now, your first duty will be to carry that note.”

“I am ready, sir.”

“Of course he’s ready,” cried the newsboy, rejoicing over his friend’s success; “but hadn’t you better do things a little ship-shape? About the wages, now. This young gentleman has got a mother——”

“Grandmother,” whispered Robert.

“Just so. A grandmother and sister to support; and money is money to him.”

Gould laughed.

“How much did we give the last fellow?” he said, addressing Smith in careless good humor.

“Three dollars a week.”

“Give this one four. I’ll be responsible to the governor. With an old grandmother, and all that sort of thing, it won’t be too much.”

“Oh, sir! I am so glad—so very, very glad!” cried Robert, crushing his hat between both hands in a paroxysm of grateful feelings. “I wish you could see her; she would know how to thank you, I don’t.”

“He’s young and green—don’t mind him,” cut in the newsboy, drawing the sleeve of his jacket across his eyes. “Consarn the dust, how it blinds a fellow! By-and-by he’ll take things like a man.”

“I only wish I was a man; oh, sir! how I would work for you.”

Gould got up from his seat and laid his white hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Boy! boy! I would be a child again, could that give me back the feeling which fills those eyes with tears. Oh, Smith! how much we men lose in hardening ourselves. It is only the pure and good who can be really grateful. Heavens! how I envy this boy!”

“Me, sir?” said Robert; “envy me. But then it is something to earn so much money; and more yet, to know that your father died for his country, fighting in the front ranks. I’m all they have to depend on, sir. You haven’t any idea how rich this four dollars a week will make us. But I’ll earn it! I’ll earn it—see if I don’t!”

“Of course you will!” exclaimed the newsboy, who was getting rather tired of the scene. “But here comes another gentleman—hadn’t we better make ourselves scarce till to-morrow?”

As the lad spoke, a strange gentleman came into the counting-room, and shook hands with Gould.

“Well, I’ve been on the war-track, with some success, too,” he said eagerly. “Saw her going into that house——”

“What house, Ward? What house?”

“Why——” here Ward broke off, and took young Gould aside, to whom he spoke in a low, eager voice for some minutes. The young man listened with a little impatience; and more than once his face flushed angrily. At last he came away from the window, where they had been conversing, with a sparkle of indignation in his fine eyes.

“Take no unworthy means,” he said; “I will neither sanction or take advantage of any thing forced or dishonorable.”

Ward laughed.

“What has come over you?” he said. “Capricious as ever; carried off by some other pretty face, I dare say?”

“No, there you mistake.”

“Well, well! you will join us to-night?”

“No; I promised my uncle to give all that sort of thing up.”

“You did?”

“Yes; God bless the dear old fellow! He came down so handsomely—without a word, too; asked no promise—found no fault.”

“But you made a promise and a very silly one.”

“Possibly—time will show; at least I will be neither false nor ungrateful, if I can help it.”

Here Ward’s eyes fell upon the note, with its dainty seal—and he laughed a little maliciously.

“Oh! Ha! I understand! A new flame,” he cried.

“You can look at the address,” said Gould, quietly; “and read it, if you like.”

Ward took up the note, and looked surprised.

“This lad would have brought it to you in half an hour,” said Gould.

Ward tore the note open, and a thousand dollar bill dropped out. He picked it up, glanced at the amount, and then at Robert.

“And you would have intrusted this to that child—who is he?”

“Our new errand-boy.”

“But his name?”

“I really don’t know it.”

“And without knowing his name, you would intrust him with this?”

“Yes, or ten times as much.”

“But what do you know about him?”

“Nothing.”

“Who recommended him?”

“I recommended him,” broke forth the newsboy. “What have you to say against that, I want to know?”

Ward measured the indignant newsboy with his scornful eyes, folded up the treasury-note, and left the counting-room a good deal crest-fallen and annoyed.

Robert and his literary friend followed him, and, I regret to say, the latter put both hands up to his face, and ground an imaginary coffee-mill with vigor during the moment in which Ward turned to look upon him as he passed round the nearest corner. As for Robert, he did not clearly comprehend the movement, for old Mrs. Burns had kept him in-doors a great deal of the time, and his education, in some particulars, was incomplete.

CHAPTER XI.
AN INTRUDER.

When Anna Burns left her little brother near the garden wall, she turned down the next street, and met young Savage coming from an opposite direction. His face flushed pleasantly, and his eyes brightened as he saw her.

“Miss Burns, how happy I am to have met you,” he said, turning back and walking by her side. “I would have called, but was afraid of intruding upon your sorrow. How is the dear old lady?”

Anna had been flushing red and turning white, like the sensitive, modest creature she was, till he looked kindly down into her face, and asked this question; then she lifted her eyes and answered him with a smile that made his heart leap.

“Thank you very much! Grandmother is well, and happier than any of us. She is so good that even grief seems to make her more and more gentle. I never heard her complain in my life.”

“Still, this must have been a terrible blow.”

“It was! it was! But she yields—bends; resists nothing that God sees fit to inflict.”

“And you?”

His voice was full of tender compassion. His eyes brought tears into hers.

“I cannot be so good, my heart will ache; my very breath is sometimes painful! Oh, sir! you cannot tell how I loved my father!”

“He must have been a superior man,” said Savage, gently; “a very superior man, to have brought up a family so well, under what seems to me great difficulties.”

“He was a——”

Anna broke down here—tears drowned her voice.

“Forgive me! I am cruel to wound you so; but it is not meant unkindly,” said Savage.

“I know—I know!” faltered Anna, behind her veil; “but you cannot think how noble he was—what beautiful talent he had. I think Joseph takes after him; he begins to draw pictures even now.”

“Was your father an artist, then?”

“Yes; a designer on wood. He was just beginning to make himself known. But he could do many things beside that. We all loved him so—and now he is dead!”

Anna drew her veil close, and, for a time, the young pair walked on in silence, unconscious of the course they were taking. They were aroused by a carriage dashing past, in which a lady sat alone. She leaned forward, revealing an eager face, surmounted by a bonnet of lilac velvet, with masses of pink roses under the narrow front. The horses moved so rapidly that Savage scarcely recognized the face of Miss Eliza Halstead as she swept by; but Anna saw it clearly, and shrunk within herself.

Miss Halstead had recognized Savage with a killing smile on her lips; but when she saw his companion, the smile withered into a sneer, and she seized the checkstring in fierce haste.

“Drive round the block again, fast at first, then slower,” she said.

The man obeyed, and dashing round the block, came upon the young couple again at a slower pace. Now Miss Eliza leaned out, kissed her hand to Savage, and searched Anna’s face through the veil that shaded it with her vicious eyes.

“I thought so—I thought so!” she muttered, biting the fingers of her canary-colored gloves till the delicate kid was torn by her teeth. “It’s that creature, not Georgiana, who stands in my way. Oh! I have made a discovery! It’s her! It’s the same girl that I saw at the fair. Some poor seamstress or sewing-machine operator, or I’m dreadfully mistaken.”

The carriage moved slowly on as Eliza registered these convictions in her mind; and before it was out of sight, Savage had forgotten its existence, so deeply was he interested in the conversation of the young girl who walked so modestly by his side—so completely did the feelings of the moment carry him away.

They parted at last not far from Anna’s dwelling. Her hand was in his for an instant; her eyes met his ardent glance as he whispered farewell; and warm, red blushes dried up the tears that had been upon her cheek.

“I will see you again—I must see you again,” he said, while her hand trembled in his; “without that hope, I should not care to live.”

These words, sincere and impassioned, were enough to flood her face with blushes, and set her to wondering why the heart that had seemed so heavy, rose and throbbed like a nightingale startled on its nest by the song of some kindred bird.

With a light step and beaming face, the young creature turned into the dark paths of her every-day life, and climbed the stairs which led to her garret-home, lightly as angels tread a rainbow. The old lady looked up when she saw her grandchild coming, and smiled meekly, feeling that she would need such comfort; but she was surprised when Anna smiled back, and, taking off her bonnet, turned a face that was almost radiant upon her.

“What is it, love? What has happened, that you should look so bright, so happy?”

“Happy? Am I happy, grandmother? No, no! It was but last night I told you that nothing on earth could ever make me happy, now that he was dead.”

“Yes, child; but God does not permit eternal grief to the young.”

“Grandmother,” said Anna, leaning over the old woman’s chair, that her face might not be seen, “have you not always told me that God is love?”

“Yes, darling, God is love.”

“Then, grandmother, all love must be divine—born of heaven?”

“Yes, child, all love is born of heaven.”

“Grandmother?”

“Well, my dear.”

“Did any one ever love you?”

The old lady’s hands fell into her lap, and clasped themselves tightly.

“I—I thought so once,” she said, in a low voice. “Yes, I thought so.”

“Did you ever love any one, dear grandmother?”

“Did I ever love any one? God help me, yes, I have; I——”

Anna flung herself on her knees before the old woman, struck to the heart by her own cruelty. The poor old lady was trembling from head to foot; her lips quivered like those of a grieved child; her heart was troubled as the earth stirs when a lily has been torn up by the root.

“Oh, grandmother, forgive me!” cried the young girl; “I did not mean it. Can love last so long? Is it rooted so deep in the life?”

A quivering smile stole over that gentle face.

“Do you think that love is only given to the young? That it is mortal like the body? That it leaves the soul because bright hair turns to silver on the head? No, no, my child! Love is the one passion which time deepens holily, but cannot kill. The soul, when it seeks eternity, carries that with it. There is no real life to the woman that does not love.”

“Oh, grandmother! how solemnly you speak.”

“The love of an old woman is always solemn.”

“And of a young woman—what is that grandmother?”

“With her, my child, it is the blossom which precedes the fruit,—bright, delicate, heavenly,—perishing, sometimes, with the first frost, or under a warm burst of sunshine; but when the blossom falls only to shrine its shadow in the core of the fruit that springs from it, changing itself only to meet the sweet changes of womanhood; then, and not till then, can the soul know how faithful, how true, how immortal love is.”

Anna bent her head and listened to that sad, low voice, which spoke of love with such sweet solemnity. The blossoms of a first love seemed opening in her heart, then, and flooding it with perfume.

“Oh, grandmother! how beautiful life is!” she said, with a deep sigh, which had no pain in it. “I think the whole earth brightens every day.”

“Anna,” said the old lady, gently.

“Well, grandmother.”

“How long is it since the world has become so beautiful to you?”

“Oh! I don’t know; but it seems to me forever.”

“Still it is but a little time since we heard that my son—your father——”

“Yes, I know—I know. For a time all the universe was dark as night to me; but now it seems as if my father had come back, and brought glimpses of the heaven he inhabits with him. Oh, grandmother! why is it that I am not unhappy? I know he is dead; I know that we are poor and helpless; that this is a miserable room, with nothing lovely in it but this precious old face, yet it seems like a paradise to me. I could sing here as nightingales do among the roses.”

“Anna, my child, I fear this is love.”

“Love, grandmother!” cried the girl, in a quick, startled voice. “No, no! not that! I never thought that it was really love.”

That bright, young face turned white as she spoke; and Anna’s eyelids drooped suddenly.

“Oh, grandmother! what makes you say that?”

“I did not say it unkindly, darling.”

“You never do say any thing unkindly, dear grandmother—but this frightens me. Am I doing wrong?”

“Doing wrong! There can be no wrong in an honest affection; but there may be, and is, great danger.”

“Danger, grandmother—how?”

“I cannot explain—cannot even point out the danger; but this young man is rich, proud, highly educated. His parents are said to be ambitious for him beyond any thing.”

“Yes, grandmother, I suppose they are; and I am so lowly, so very poor; so, so——”

The poor girl’s eyes filled, and her sweet lips began to quiver with the tenderness of new-born grief.

“I did not think of them. I never thought of any thing, only——”

She broke off and covered her face with both hands.

“Only that he loved you. Has young Mr. Savage told you this, Anna?”

“I don’t know. Yes, it seems to me as if he had. How dark every thing is growing. This room is black and shabby. I wonder he could ever come here. I remember, now, the boys were playing with oyster-shells when he came in, and they had no shoes on, poor, little fellows! He never would have said those things to me here. Never, never!”

Anna buried her face in the old lady’s cap, and that little, withered hand began to smooth her hair with gentle touches of affection, that went directly to the young heart.

“Be quiet, be patient, my dear child. What have I said that you should sink into such despair?”

Anna lifted her head, and put the hair back from her eyes with both hands.

“Oh, grandmother! what do you mean?”

“Only this, my dear. If the young man loves you, the obstacles which I have pointed out will be overcome; for as there is nothing on this earth so pure as love, neither is there any thing so powerful. Through the strong affection which a mother feels for her son, even that proud lady may yield. Do not let the poverty of this room, or of your dress, weigh too heavily upon you. It is well that he should have seen you thus at first; and remember, a modest, good girl, well informed, and well-mannered, is the match of any man in a country like ours.”

“Dear grandmother!” exclaimed Anna, gratefully.

“Now tell me,” said the old lady, “what did this young man say to you?”

“Indeed, indeed, I cannot tell. Every word is in my heart; but I could as soon give you the perfume from a rose as repeat them understandingly. I know that it is true; but that is all.”

“And enough, if it, indeed, prove true. But listen, I think it is the boys coming home.”

Yes, it was Robert and Joseph rushing up stairs with unusual impetuosity. You might have known by their deer-like leaps up the steps, and the joyous struggle to outstrip each other, that there was good news on their lips.

“Oh, grandmother! we’ve done it! We’re men of business, both of us. Four dollars a week for me, and Josey unlimited, but magnificent. He’s got a voice. I wish you could hear him. Twenty-five cents, clear cash, in an hour. That newsboy wouldn’t touch a cent of it. Oh! he’s a capital fellow, a gentleman every inch of him—that is, in heart. He got me that place; he’s been a benefactor to me, a prince, a first-rate fellow! Kiss Joe, grandmother, I’m getting a little too large; but, but—no, I’m not. I shall die and shake up if somebody don’t kiss me. Only think, four dollars a week. Hurrah!”

Robert flung his new cap up to the ceiling, and leaped after it with the spring of an antelope. Joseph had both arms around his grandmother’s neck, and was pressing the twenty-five cent note upon her.

“It’s all mine, every cent. You and Anna can spend it between you; buy new dresses with it, or shawls, or a pretty bonnet for Anna. Don’t be afraid, I can earn more—lots and lots more. He’s going to give me some of the papers that have pictures on them to sell; perhaps father’s pictures may be among them. He didn’t think that I should ever sell the beautiful things he made, did he? But I shall, and it will make me so proud to see people admiring them. Kiss me, grandma, and say that you’re glad.”

“I am very glad that you come home so happy, my children—but what is it all about?” said the grandmother, kissing Joseph on his pure white forehead, while she reached forth her hand to Robert.

“Oh! it’s just this. I’m engaged as an errand-boy in a first-rate house for four dollars a week; and Joseph there—who’d believe it of the little shaver—has got a newspaper route ready for him; and he’s ready for it. Between us we mean to support you and Anna first-rate, and dress her up till she looks like a pink. I mean to get her a velvet cloak, like that Miss Halstead had on at the fair, the very first thing, and long, gold earrings, and—and every thing. Indeed, I do. Don’t we, Joseph?”

“That’s just what I told grandma when I gave her that twenty-five cent bill,” said Joseph, magnificently. “Said I, get dresses and shawls with it. Didn’t I, grandma?”

The grandmother smiled tenderly, smoothed his hair with her palm.

“And who is it that you are engaged with, Robert?” she said; “you have not told us any thing yet.”

“No, I haven’t. I wonder what’s the matter with me? It’s with Gould & Co. Splendid, I can tell you. Warehouse, as they call it, a hundred feet long. Oh, Anna! I wish you could see the young gentleman—he is splendid. But grandma, what is the matter with you? How white you are! How your poor hands shake! Dear me, what is the matter?”

The old lady’s head had fallen forward on her bosom; the borders of her cap quivered like a white poppy in the wind. She grasped some folds of her dress with one hand, as if to steady its trembling.

“Grandma, what is the matter?”

The old lady lifted her wan face, and looked at the eager boy bending over her vaguely, as if she did not quite know him.

“Oh! grandma, grandma! what is the matter?”

“Nothing—nothing!” gasped those thin, pale lips. “Never, never mind me, children, I am not—not very well.”

Anna, who had taken off her bonnet and shawl, came forward now, and, taking the old woman in her arms, laid her head on her bosom.

“She is tired, Robert; your good news has taken her unawares. Grandmother is not strong.”

“I—I didn’t mean to hurt her,” said Robert, penitently. “Who would have thought it?”

“You have not hurt me, dear,” answered the faint old voice. “See, I am better now.”

“Wouldn’t a cup of tea do her good?” whispered Joseph. “It almost always does.”

“That’s a bright idea,” cried Robert. “Fill the tea-kettle, Joe, while I make a fire. Dear, me, who’s that, I wonder?”

A knock at the door had startled the little group, for such sounds seldom interrupted them in their garret-room.

Robert opened the door, and a young man, whom Joseph recognized at once, stepped into the room, lifting his hat as he entered.

“I beg pardon,” he said, glancing around the apartment; “but chancing to see my young friend there—pointing to Joseph—enter this house, I ventured to follow. We entered into a little negotiation regarding some fine sewing, which I am anxious to complete. Is this young lady the sister you spoke of, young gentleman?”

Joseph retreated slowly toward his grandmother, and stood looking at the stranger, turning white and red, like the frightened child he was.

“She is my sister,” cried Robert, flinging down a handful of kindling wood on the hearth, and coming forward. “But just now I can support her handsomely myself, on what Mr. Gould pays me. He wouldn’t have followed me home like that. We are very much obliged; but sister Anna has all the fine work she can do, and never takes any thing of the kind from gentlemen—at any rate, unless they are very particular friends, indeed,” added the boy, with a blush, remembering that Anna had done some work of the kind for young Savage, and seemed to enjoy the doing of it very much, indeed.

“Then your sister does, sometimes, accept such work as I offer?” said the young man, bowing to Anna. “I am glad to hear that; it saves me from feeling quite like an intruder. May I hope, young lady, that you will make me one of the exceptions?”

“She don’t want any work,” interposed Robert, coloring crimson. “I’ve got an idea above that for her, and I mean to carry it out, too. Our Anna, sir, is a lady, if she does live up here under the roof.”

“No one could doubt that for a moment,” answered Ward, casting a glance of warm admiration on the young girl.

Here the old lady arose, still pale, but gently self-possessed.

“Will you be seated,” she said, with quiet dignity, “and let us understand what it is that you desire of us? My grandson seems to have met you before.”

“Yes, grandma, I saw the gentleman at Gould & Co.’s, and he seemed as if he would like them not to take me; hinted that I wouldn’t carry a lot of money from one person to another honestly, and hurt my feelings, generally. I don’t know what he wants to come here for.”

Here Joseph gave his grandmother’s dress a pull, and whispered, as she bent toward him, “It was he who paid me the twenty-five cents. Give it back to him—give it back to him.”

The old lady patted his head, and turned to the stranger.

“If I understand, you wish to have some sewing done, and thinking my grandchild wants work, bring it to her. We are much obliged; but she is very busy just now, and it will be impossible for her to undertake any thing more than she has on hand.”

“But at some future time, madam,” said the young man. “I can wait.”

“It will be impossible to promise for the future,” answered the old lady; “as the persons who employ my child now must always have the preference. Perhaps we had better think no more about it.”

Ward did not rise; but sat balancing his hat by the rim between both hands. He evidently wished to prolong the interview; but the old lady stood quietly as if she expected him to go, and he could not muster hardihood enough to brave her even with a shower of extra politeness. All this time, Anna had not spoken a word; but sat by the window, looking out like one in a dream. Even the intrusion of this strange man could not drive her from the heaven of her thoughts.

Ward arose, almost awkwardly, for the gentle breeding of that sweet old lady had been a severe rebuke to the audacious ease with which he had entered the room.

“Then I will take leave,” he said, glancing at Anna, who was far away in her first love-dream, and did not even see him. “Of course, I am disappointed; but will hope better success when I call again.”

No one answered him; and the young man went his way crest-fallen and bitterly annoyed. He had certainly found out where the young girl lived, still nothing but humiliation had come out of it. Gould, too, had almost snubbed him that morning. The thousand dollar note was some compensation for that; but these people in the garret, poor and proud—how should he avenge himself on them? How debase the pride that had so humbled him? As he went down stairs, a paper on one side of the outer door attracted his attention. A room to let—that was all; but it struck the young man with a most wicked idea.

“Inquire in the front room, first story,” he muttered. “Yes, I’ll do it now; that will give me a right to go in and out when I please.”

He went into the front room, first story, and came out with a key in his hand, remounted the stairs, and entered a room directly beneath that occupied by the Burns family. It was a mean room, scantily furnished, looking out on the chimneys and back yards, which have already been described. But the glimpse of blue sky and a rich sunset, which could be obtained from the upper window, was broken up by flaunting clothes-line and bare walls here. A more lonely place could not well have been found.

But young Ward cared nothing for this. A paltry lie had secured him a legal foothold in the house. How he would use that privilege would be developed in the future. He had vague ideas, but no plans. The people up stairs had attempted to freeze him from the house, and he would teach them that it could not be done. That was about all he calculated on at the time.

Ward went back into the front room, first story, where he found a tall, gaunt woman seated in a Boston rocking-chair, working vigorously on some woollen garment which she called slop-work. She wore no hoop, and her scant dress fell short at the ankles, revealing a pair of men’s slippers, which had once been red-morocco, and a glimpse of coarse yarn stockings.

“Well,” she said, pressing the side of her steel thimble against the eye of her needle, as she took a vigorous stitch, “suited with the premises, or not? Would a gone up with you, only hadn’t time. Ten cents apiece for a blouse like this don’t give a woman many play spells.”

“I like the room, and will pay two months’ rent in advance,” said Ward, taking out his porte-monnaie.

“Then that’s settled,” answered the woman, nodding her head as he laid the money down. “Good-day! Good-day!”

CHAPTER XII.
AN ECCENTRIC DRIVE.

Miss Eliza Halstead was very eccentric in her drive about town that day. She had some shopping to do, but forgot it entirely, for the first time in her life. Miss Eliza had a taste for that especial amusement; and it must have been an absorbing passion that could have drawn it from her mind. As it was, Chestnut street saw but little of the Halstead carriage that day; but it appeared in parts of the town where such equipages seldom presented themselves; threaded cross-streets, and drove slowly by tenement-houses, astonishing the children that played on the doorsteps, and chased each other along the unswept side-walks. Once or twice Miss Eliza left her carriage and examined the numbers of these houses herself, rather than trust the coachman to leave his horses. This singular conduct disturbed the serenity of this high potentate, who muttered his indignation to the air, and lashed little boys with his whip, as if they had been to blame for bringing him into a neighborhood which revolted every aristocratic sense of his nature. Miss Eliza, too, held up her skirts as she crossed the pavements, and threaded the side-walks with an air of infinite disdain; but comforted herself by reflecting that the people who saw her would believe that some noble purpose of charity had brought her there; and, to strengthen this idea, she took a showy porte-monnaie from her pocket, and tangled its gold chain in her gloved fingers, which was suggestive of unbounded benevolence searching in the highways and hedges for objects of charity.

Miss Eliza was a good deal puzzled by all the numbers, which she found contradicting each other along the battered doors, and was about to abandon the exploration, when she saw a young man leave one of the houses, and walk down the block, as if in haste to leave the neighborhood.

“That is young Ward, I’ll stake any thing,” said Miss Eliza, leaning out of the carriage she had just entered. “What on earth can he be doing there?”

Young Ward did not notice her, but turned a corner and disappeared; but Eliza had taken a correct survey of the house, and ordering the coachman to drive slowly by it, took the number in her memory.

“She came down this block and darted into a door somewhere close by this very place, I’ll be sworn to that,” muttered the spinstress. “Savage kept by her side almost to the corner. They must have walked together a full hour, and he with his head bent half the time—the artful creature. I wonder if he knows that she left him to meet this handsome young gambler in that place? Oh! it’s all true! That boy in the door is her brother, one of the barefooted creatures who stood in the picture of ‘a soldier’s home.’ There is no mistake about the thing now. Jacob! I say, Jacob! You may drive home!”

Jacob muttered heavily under his breath, and, seeing a long space of broken pavement, avenged his outraged dignity by driving through it so roughly that the carriage rocked and toiled in the ruts like some ship in a storm. Liking the faint screams that came from within the carriage, Jacob resolved to give his lady the full benefit of the neighborhood she had forced him into; so he lost his way, and drove around in a circle, where the squalid children were thickest along the side-walks, and women with naked arms, sometimes dripping with soapsuds, thrust their heads from the windows, wondering at the splendor of her equipage. But Jacob revolted himself at this amusement, after a little, and drove back to a level with aristocracy again, after which he condescended to take a tolerably straight line for home.

Miss Eliza went into her step-brother’s house in a state of sublime exaltation. Two distinct tints of red flushed her cheeks; her pale blue eyes darkened and gleamed. Up the steps she ran, and into the house, eager to unbosom herself of the secret that possessed her. Some feline instinct carried her directly to the little room in which Georgiana Halstead spent her leisure hours, and where she then was somewhat lonely and dispirited. Georgie had kept much by herself during the last few days, for a gentle sadness had fallen upon her, such as loving hearts know when locked up with anxious suspense.

It was a beautiful room which the girl occupied, half library, half boudoir, warmed with the mellow sunshine and bright with tasteful ornaments. The walls were wainscoted with black walnut, enriched with gilded beading, and the ceiling was crossed with beams of the same dark wood, giving an antique air to the whole. The floor was also of polished walnut, which a Persian carpet, bright with scarlet and green, left exposed at the edges. Turkish chairs, and a pretty couch, all cushions and crimson silk, gave warmth to the dark shades of the wall, while crimson curtains imparted to them a double richness when the sun shone through them. Mosaic tables blended these commingling shades harmoniously. A harp, that seemed one net-work of gold, stood in one corner. A guitar, around which clustered a wreath of gold and mother-of-pearl, lay upon the couch; and superbly bound books were scattered on the tables. But all these had given no happiness to pretty Georgiana, who lay huddled together in one of the Turkish chairs, pale as a lily, and with soft, bluish shadows deepening under her eyes. Whoever the man was that she grieved about, I think he never could have resisted so much tender loveliness, had he seen Georgie then, with her hair disturbed and rippling, half in ringlets, half in waves, shading her face here and revealing it there, absolutely rendering her one of the most interesting creatures in the world. A morning dress of very pale green merino, with some swans’-down about the neck and sleeves, lay in soft folds around her. She had been crying, poor girl! and the dew of her tears hung on those long, curling lashes, which were brown, and several shades darker than her golden hair.

Georgie heard Miss Eliza’s step, and wiped the tears away quickly with her hand, starting up and holding her breath, like a white hare afraid of being driven from its covert, as the rustle of silk drew nearer and nearer.

“Oh, you are here yet! I fancied so,” cried Miss Eliza, flinging open the door, and sweeping into the room with a rush and flutter which always accompanied her movements; “and in that morning dress, too, intensely interesting. But do you know it is almost dinner-time?”

“I was not going down to dinner, Aunt Eliza,” answered Georgie; “my head aches a little, I think.”

“What! have your dinner sent up? Why, child, this is putting on airs.”

“No, I am not putting on airs, Aunt Eliza.”

“Aunt Eliza! How often am I to tell you that I detest the title; besides, it does not belong to me. I am aunt to no one, certainly not to a person who has not a single drop of my blood in her veins.”

“I am sorry to have used the word; excuse me,” said Georgie, with childlike sweetness. “I never wish to offend you, Miss Eliza.”

“No one wishes to offend me; and yet—but no matter, I came to tell you something, but I dare say it will only set you off into hysterics, or something of that kind. I have made a discovery, a painful, heart-rending discovery. It ought not to concern you, but you have a woman’s heart, and can sympathize with me.”

“What, what has happened?” cried Georgie, sitting up, and turning her eyes full upon Miss Eliza. “Nothing very serious, I hope.”

“That depends,” answered the spinster, sitting down on the floor with a swoop of her garments that raised a little whirlwind around them, and leaning her elbow on Georgiana’s lap. This was a favorite position with Miss Eliza when the spirit of extreme youthfulness grew strong within her. “That depends on the susceptibility of the heart that is wounded. Oh, child! may you never be gifted with those exquisite feelings which make up that heavenly thing called genius in a human soul; but without that you can never know how I suffer, how the pride of suppressed tenderness struggles in this soul!”

Georgiana had heard these intense rhapsodies before, and knew what trifling occasions could bring them forth. She closed her eyes wearily, and laid her head back on the cushions of the chair, waiting in weary patience for the explanation that might be long in coming.

“No wonder you sigh; no wonder the lids droop over your eyes. My own are full of unshed tears. But I must be brave. I will be brave, and struggle against the destiny that threatens me.”

Georgiana sighed a little wearily and moved back in her seat, for Miss Eliza’s arm pressed heavily upon her.

“Is there—is there a man on earth that may be trusted, who is not ready to break the heart that confides in him?”

Georgiana shrunk back from the prying glance fixed upon her, and strove against the thrill of pain that passed over her.

“Whom are you speaking of, Miss Eliza?” she inquired, in a faint voice.

“Of the man whom you, weak, silly thing, have loved vainly; and I—oh! too well!—too well! He is faithless, like the rest—cruelly, cruelly faithless—I saw it with my own eyes. After that scene in the carriage, too, when my hand rested in the firm clasp of his; when his eyes met all the maidenly tenderness that flooded mine. Oh, Georgiana! that was a heavenly moment; but the earthquake has come; the tornado is passed, and my heart lies a wreck under his feet.

‘He may break—he may ruin the vase, if he will,

But the scent of the roses will cling to it still.’”

Here Miss Eliza took out her cobweb of a handkerchief, and wiped some mythical tears from her pale, gray eyes. Then grasping the handkerchief tightly in her hand, she cried out, “But you cannot feel. He never loved you, never encouraged your love.”

Georgiana started up, and shook the arm from her lap with some impatience.

“Who are you talking about? What does all this mean?” she said.

“It means,” said Eliza, gathering herself up from the floor, “that the man you love to idolatry—but who loves me in spite of every thing—is fascinated with that girl who played Rebecca in that hideous tableau. I saw them walking together a whole hour this very day, his face bent to hers, her hand clasping his arm.”

Georgiana sunk to her chair again, white and faint.

“Aunt Eliza, please let me rest a little, I am not well, you know.” Tears were in her voice, tears trembled on her eyelashes. Eliza was satisfied, and went out of the room.

CHAPTER XIII.
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.

“What are you doing, Joseph?”

The child did not answer at first; the bright red came into his innocent cheeks, and he gave a little laugh of mingled confusion and glee as he trotted out of the corner, and came toward his grandmother.

The old lady had paused for a second in her work; but she could not afford to forget herself into stopping completely, and her wasted fingers began moving as assiduously as ever.

“I thought you were trying to fly,” said she, smiling in her sweet, patient way, the sort of smile that human lips only wear when they have been purified by great and patient suffering. “I didn’t know but you had a pair of wings hid away under your jacket.”

“I wish I had!” exclaimed Joseph, impetuously. “Oh! I wish I could fly, grandma!”

“Why, what would you do, Joey?” she asked, looking almost wonderingly down at his eager face all aglow with enthusiasm.

“I’d fly away to heaven and bring father back,” he whispered, nestling close to her side.

The old woman dropped her work, and folded her arms close about him; while one dry sob, that takes the place of tears with the aged, shook her breast.

“I’m afraid the angels wouldn’t let you come back,” she whispered; “grandma couldn’t lose her boy.”

“No, no! I’d come back,” he said, eagerly; “and I would just tell father how we want him.”

“The good Father of all knows best, Joseph,” she answered, with sweet submission. “You mustn’t wish anybody back that has gone over the black waters.”

“Only we need him so, grandma.”

“Yes, deary; but you don’t forget your little hymn. We ain’t alone, you know.”

“No, grandma! Oh! if I was only a big man!” he cried, with immense energy.

“Were you trying to stretch yourself into one?” she asked, bringing herself back to ordinary reflections; for she had learned, poor soul, in those years of trial, how dangerous it is to give way to yearning thoughts after the dear ones who have gone forward to the eternal rest.

“Yes, grandma,” said the boy, bursting into a laugh at his own performance—such a merry, rippling laugh, that it made the old woman think of the sound the mountain brooks made among the wild country scenes she had so loved in the days when life was still an actual pleasure.

“Well, not quite that, grandma,” he added, in his scrupulously truthful way. “But I was trying to see if I hadn’t got up above the mark sister Anna made for me in the corner.”

“And you couldn’t stretch yourself to satisfy you? It’ll come soon enough, my boy—soon enough.”

“I think it’s very slow work, grandma; and the birthdays are so far apart. What a great while a year is, grandma, aint it? It don’t seem as if it ought to take many of them to make eternity.”

The smile was quite gone from her face now. She had forgotten the work that must be done; her face was uplifted, and the shadowy eyes looked eagerly out, as if the tired soul were trying to pierce the mists that lay between it and its haven of rest.

The boy looked at her wonderingly; then her silence, and her strange, far-off look filled him with a vague trouble. He slid his little hand into hers and pulled her toward him, exclaiming,

“Grandma! grandma!”

“Yes, dear,” she answered, dreamily.

“Oh! don’t look as if you were going away!”

Truly, his innocent words, whose import he himself so dimly comprehended, was the most perfect translation of that look which words could have found.

“What were you thinking about, grandma?”

“Thinking? Ever so many things—so many!”

“Don’t the years seem a great way apart to you, grandma?”

“So short; and such ages and ages to look back on,” she answered; but replying more to her own thoughts than seeking to make her words plain to his childish understanding.

“Why, you don’t have birthdays any oftener than I, do you?” he asked, somewhat jealously; perhaps afraid he was being defrauded of his rightful dues in regard to the number and frequency of those blessings that grow such very doubtful ones as the years get on.

“It’s only that they seem to come closer and closer, Joey,” she answered, brushing his hair back from his handsome face. “When anybody gets old, little boy, the years grow very short in passing, and so long to look back on.”

“I guess I don’t quite understand it yet, grandma,” he said, with a somewhat puzzled look.

“Time enough, little Joseph. Don’t you try to hurry things; you’ll understand soon enough.”

“Will I?” and he gave a sigh of relief—the promise and the anticipation were almost as consoling as any reality—the anticipations of childhood are so golden in the light of the future.

Joseph nestled close to her feet on the little stool, and, resting his thoughts on the promise she had made, brought himself back to safer themes, both as regarded his mental capacities and the old lady’s peace.

“This is just the morning for a good long talk, ain’t it, grandma?” he said, in his quaint, old-fashioned way, that was so pretty and original.

“Almost any morning seems just the one for you and me,” she answered, pleasantly, taking up her work again, and proceeding to make amends for lost time with great energy.

“Well, so it does,” said Joseph, after considering the matter for a little. “You and I don’t seem to get talked out very easy, do we, grandma?”

“Not very, dear; you have a tolerably busy tongue of your own.”

“Sister Anna says, sometimes she’s afraid you find it most too long,” said Joe, honestly.

“There isn’t any danger of that, my boy; it’s as sweet to your old grandmother as the birds’ songs used to be.”

“Only not like that parrot in the baker’s shop,” amended Joseph, with a laugh.

“More like the wood-thrushes I used to hear up in Vermont,” she said; for his laughter brought back again the memory of the brooks, and the beautiful summers that lay so far off behind the shadows of all those later years.

“How does a wood-thrush sing?”

Then there had to be an elaborate explanation; at the end of which he must ask, in great haste:

“Did you live in Vermont, grandma?”

“No, dear; but I spent a summer there once—so long, long ago.”

“But you have forgotten about it?”

“Forgotten, child? Oh! I couldn’t forget it!”

“Was it so very pleasant, grandma?”

The feeling that surged up in her heart was like a glow from her perished youth, so warm and powerful was it; the soft wind from that summer of the past blew across her soul and made her voice sweet as a psalm.

“So pleasant, Joey—so pleasant!”

“Was grandpa with you?”

“Yes; he was there part of the time.”

“I think I should like to hear about it,” said Joe; “it sounds like a story.”

So it was—the story every youth knows, varied according to individual experience; but the old story still, that is always so beautiful.

“Won’t you tell me about it, grandma?”

“Indeed, dear, there is nothing to tell! It was like a story to me, because I was so very, very happy, and the birds sang as I don’t think they ever have sung since; and I haven’t heard any thing, either, like the sound of the brooks, only your dear voice; and it was such a beautiful time of rest.”

She was far beyond little Joe’s comprehension now; but the unusual look in her face interested him, and her voice sounded like a blessing, it was so soft and caressing.

“What makes you think the birds haven’t sung so since?” he asked, with that tendency to be direct and practical, which children show in so odd a way when they are perplexed by a conversation that makes new echoes in their untrained souls.

“That was only grandma’s foolish fancy,” she said, trying to come back from the phantom world, where her thoughts had wandered. “Dear boy, the birds never stop singing! Never forget that as you grow older, and troubles begin to weary you. Even if you can’t hear them for a time, they are singing still; and so are God’s blessed angels, too, and sometime we shall hear both clearly again.”

“Up in heaven,” said Joe, gravely and thoughtfully.

“Up in heaven!” repeated the old woman, and her voice was a thanksgiving.

The boy caught her hand and held it fast. There was an expression of such trust and hope, making her face young again, that a vague fear shot into his mind that she was just ready to float away from his sight forever.

“Don’t, grandma!” he exclaimed.

“What, dear?”

“Did you hear ’em sing?” he whispered, in a sort of awe-stricken way.

“What do you mean, little one?”

“You looked as if they were calling you—the angels, you know. You won’t go away!”

“They will call sometime, my boy, and your poor, old, tired grandma will go to her rest. Only we must have patience, Joey—a little patience.”

“I don’t want you to go,” said Joe, stoutly; “and I don’t think I like the angels either!”

“Why, Joseph!” said the old lady, startled into a practical view of things by the expression of a sentiment so dreadfully heterodox. “What do you mean? Not like the angels that live up in heaven? Just think a little.”

“Well, they’re always taking folks away,” he replied, rebelliously; “and I wish they wouldn’t! I’m sure they can’t love you as well as I do, for I’ve known you all my life; and they’re only strangers, after all.”

Joe spoke as solemnly as if his little existence had endured several scores of years; and grandma, in spite of feeling it her duty to impress a proper orthodox lesson on the child’s mind, could not help a smile at the idea of the angels being considered interlopers, and unjustifiably inclined to meddle with human affairs.

“They love us, Joey,” she said.

“Yes; but not so well as we love each other, I guess.”

“They come to take us home,” she added.

“Then I want ’em to take us all together,” retorted Joe. “They might have a family ticket, as they had at the fair,” he added, briskly, after meditating a little; and he looked quite delighted at his brilliant suggestion.

“Oh, Joe!” said the old lady; but grandma’s devotion was of a very sweet and loveable kind, and, certain that the child had meant no irreverence, she could not quite feel it her duty to give him a serious lecture upon the enormity of giving expression to such proofs of total depravity.

“That wasn’t wicked, was it, grandma?”

“You didn’t mean it to be, dear,” she answered, softly. “But you must remember the angels do love us, and they wont be strangers to us when we see them.”

Joe did not attempt to dispute a point that his grandmother stated so distinctly; but he remained sufficiently doubtful to make him desirous that the unseen visitants should not hasten their coming; and he still held fast to his grandmother’s hand, giving a long breath of satisfaction when he saw the glow of exaltation die slowly out of her face, and the every-day look of patience and resignation settle down over its pallor.

“You are making me very idle,” said the old lady, shaking his little fingers gently off her hand; “and we both forgot you haven’t said any lesson this morning, little boy.”

“I’ll get my book,” said Joe, rising with his usual prompt obedience, rather glad to get his mind back to safer and firmer ground. “I’ll say a good long one, grandma, to make up.”

“That’s my good boy.”

So the lesson was gone through with great earnestness, and with the most entire satisfaction on both sides; for Joe was as quick at his book as with his queer fancies that made him so pleasant a companion to the old lady.

“There’s somebody coming up stairs,” said Joe, as he closed his book after receiving a kiss of approval. “Oh! it’s Anna,” he added, as the door opened, and the girl entered.

“Why, I didn’t expect you home so soon, dear,” said the old lady.

“I brought the work to do it here,” she answered, laying her bundle on the table.

“I am glad of that; it’s always pleasant to have you at home.”

“But grandma wasn’t lonesome,” added Joe, hastily. “We have had one of our good old talks, haven’t we, grandma?”

“Yes, dear.”

“And I said my lesson splendid, Anna,” he continued, too eager to be quite grammatical.

“I am glad of that,” she answered, a little absently, and passed on into the little room she called her own, closing the door behind her.

She was not accustomed to lose much time in dreaming or idling; but then she sat down on the bed, and threw her bonnet wearily away, as if her head ached even under its light weight.

She looked weary and disheartened—the look so painful to see in a young face; so sad to feel that life’s iron hands settle too heavily over all the youthful dreams and hopes that ought to make youth joyous and beautiful.

There she sat quiet, and absorbed in her thoughts till the tired look wore away; and if there had been any to see, they might have told accurately by the expression of her face, and the new light in her eyes, how her thoughts stole, gradually, from the stern, harsh reality into the realm of some beautiful dream-land, whose flower-wreathed gates no care or trouble could pass.

She was so young and so lovely—ah, let her dream on! The stern reality lay just outside; the brightness of elf-land might only make its coldness more bleak when she was forced to return; but I would have hesitated to take from her the ability to wander away among her glorious visions.

There comes a time when we can dream no longer—you and I know it. But would we lose the memory of the reason when such reveries were more real than the details of the untried existence about us?

I think not. I am sure not; and since care and suffering must come, and every human heart learn its appropriate lesson, I would not deprive the young of any share of the glow and brightness which belongs to that feverish season; and you and I both know that its chief sunshine comes from that ability to weave golden visions, and sit in breathless ecstasy under their light. And then Joseph’s voice called outside the door,

“Anna—sister Anna?”

“Yes, dear; I am coming.”

The dream-world vanished; the rose-clustered portals closed, and she came back to the real life—came back, as we all must. But, oh! woe for the day when the fairy gates close with a dreary clang, and we know that never for us can they open again “till these hearts be clay.”

She passed into the outer room, where Joseph was very busily engaged in helping, or hindering his grandmother to array herself in the worn shawl and bonnet, which had so long before done duty enough to have entitled them to pass out of service.

“Grandma and I are going for a little walk, Anna,” he said, in his quaint way. “I think it’ll do her good.”

“Dear boy,” said the old lady, with her sweet smile; “there never was such a thoughtful creature.”

“I am sure it will do you good, grandmother,” Anna said; “but you must put my shawl on under yours; the wind blows cold.”

Joseph ran off to get it, and the pair wrapped the old lady up with a fondness and attention which many a rich woman would give all her India shawls, and diamonds to boot, to receive from her children.

Then Joseph led her carefully down the stairs, and Anna brought her pile of work to the fire, and sat down in her grandmother’s chair. She could not afford to waste the precious moments with so much dependent upon her exertions; but fast as her fingers flew, still faster travelled her young, unwearied thoughts; and that they were pleasant ones one could have told by the smile that stole every now and then, like a ray of sunlight, across her mouth, brightening her beauty into something positively dazzling.

There was a quick knock at the door, but supposing it to be some of the neighbor’s children on an errand, Anna did not pause in her work, calling out dreamily,

“Come in.”

The door opened hesitatingly, and Anna added, “Is it you, little Alice Romaine?”

“It is not little Alice; but may I come in?”

Anna sprang to her feet in astonishment and turned toward the door, and stood confronting Georgiana Halstead.

“Excuse me,” Georgiana said, hastily, in her graceful, childlike way. “I thought Rowena might come to see Rebecca. You are not vexed, are you?”

In spite of her retired life, Anna was too truly a lady to feel either confusion or embarrassment; not even shame at the exposure of their dreary poverty, but one of those flashes of thoughts, which travel like lightning through the mind, struck her painfully as she looked at Georgiana Halstead standing there in her beautiful dress, like the goddess of luxury come to look poverty in the face, and find out what it was like.

“I have been wanting to come so much,” continued the girl, going up to Anna and holding out her hand.

“You are very kind,” she answered, pleasantly enough; and the momentary bitterness died in cordial admiration of her visitor’s loveliness.

They made a beautiful picture as they stood, and the contrast only added to the charms of either. Had a painter desired models for the patrician descendant of Saxon kings, and the dark, passionate-eyed Jewess, he could not have found more perfect representatives, at least of his ideal.

“Will you sit down?” Anna said. “It was very kind of you to come.”

Her composure was quite restored, brought back more completely, perhaps, by a pretty little hesitation in Georgiana’s manner, such as a petted child might betray when venturing upon some step for which it feared reproval.

“Thank you; ah! it’s nice of you not to be offended,” said Georgiana, sitting down by the fire. “Mrs. Savage gave me your address; and ever since the tableau I have been so wanting to come.”

“In what way can I serve you?” Anna asked, with a proud humility.

“Oh, now! if you are going to be stately, you will frighten me off altogether,” cried Georgiana; “so please don’t, for I’m not at all stately myself.”

Anna smiled as a queen might have smiled at a spoiled child. Ah! the spell of wealth and station may be ever so strong, there is a power in nature’s patents of nobility which is stronger still.

“I don’t think I know much about being stately,” she said, with one of her rare laughs, which were so musical. “Certainly it would be a poor way of showing my thanks for your kindness in even remembering me.”

“As if anybody could forget you! Why, the whole city has been raving about you ever since that night!” exclaimed Georgiana; “and the men have done nothing but beg Mrs. Savage for another sight of the queen of beauty.”

Such words would have been very pleasant to a young girl whose life was golden as youth ought to be; but to Anna, oppressed with care and daily anxieties, they brought only a bitter pain.

Dear Mrs. Browning has told us in her passionate way—

“How dreary ’tis for women to sit still,

On Winter nights, by solitary fires,

And hear the nations praising them far off.”

And more than one woman’s heart has ached to feel its truth; but truly, for a woman to hear that her beauty is the theme of idle tongues, while she sees those dear as her own life almost hungering for bread, is a bitter comment still on the vanity of human life.

“So I thought I would come,” continued Georgiana; “and I want you to do me a favor.”

“If I can,” Anna said; “but don’t ask me to take part in any more such exhibitions. I can’t, indeed I can’t.”

“No, no!” returned Georgiana, hastily; “I wont. You shall not be bothered. But I’ll tell you what I wish you would do. Now do you promise?”

“I think I may,” Anna replied, with her lovely smile. “You don’t look as if you could ask any thing very terrible.”

“Indeed I wont!” cried she, in her enthusiastic way. “I like you so much; don’t be vexed. I don’t want to be patronizing or snobbish. I hate it so; but——”

“I am sure you don’t. Please go on.”

“Well, I’m such a sad, idle creature, and I thought if you would come to me, sometimes, and help me get through a perfect pyramid of embroidery, and work that has been accumulating since the year one, I should be so delighted.”

“I shall be very glad of the work, Miss Halstead, and I thank you heartily for remembering me.”

“Oh! don’t speak that way. It’s I that ought to thank you! Why, it will be a perfect treat just to sit and look at anybody as beautiful as you are.”

“And I shall have that satisfaction over and above the satisfaction of getting the work, of which I am so very, very glad.”

There was an earnestness in her voice which sobered the volatile creature who listened. Her life had been such a fairy dream that it was difficult for her to realize there were such evils as care and poverty in the world. It seemed so inexplicable to her that this beautiful girl could come, day after day, in actual contact with them.

“I will try and make it pleasant for you,” she said, more gravely than she often spoke. “I am a spoiled, selfish girl, but I mean to be good.”

“I think you would find it difficult to be any thing else,” Anna said, heartily.

“Oh! you don’t know. Aunt Eliza reads me the most frightful lectures; by the way, she is a sad, catty old maid; but don’t you mind her.”

Then she began talking with her accustomed volubility; and it was as bewitching to poor, lonely Anna as the Arabian Nights are to children. It seemed so strange to have these glimpses at a young life so widely separated from the clouds that hung over her own youth.

Georgiana Halstead never did things by halves; and in her usual headlong way, she had plunged into a violent interest for this lovely stranger, and sat there talking to her as freely as if she had known her half a life.

“I must be going!” she exclaimed, at last. “Oh, dear me! I have been out ages; and Aunt Eliza is waiting for the carriage; how she will scold me! Then you’ll come, miss? Mayn’t I call you Anna?”

“Indeed you may.”

“Thanks! I like you so much. You are like a picture, or a poem. Now, please like me.”

“Just as a prisoner might the sunlight!” exclaimed Anna, with unconscious earnestness.

Georgiana gave her a hearty kiss, and a cordial pressure of the hand.

“Come to-morrow,” she said. “Now wont you?”

Before Anna could answer, there was a knock at the door, which startled them both—they had been so completely absorbed.

“Who is that?” Georgiana asked.

“Only some of the neighbors, probably,” Anna answered. “Come in, please.”

The door opened. The girls turned simultaneously toward it, and there stood Horace Savage.

He advanced without any hesitation, saying,

“Excuse my intrusion, Miss Burns. Ah, Miss Georgiana, this is an unexpected pleasure.”

The girl’s brow contracted slightly; her quick glance went from one to the other.

“And to me, also,” she said.

There had been one vivid burst of crimson across Anna Burns’ cheek; then it faded, leaving her paler than before; but she stood there perfectly quiet and self-possessed.

“Will you sit down, Mr. Savage? If Miss Halstead will wait a moment she wont have to go down our dark staircase alone.”

“Miss Halstead never waits,” returned Georgiana, laughingly; but the childlike glee had forsaken both voice and face.

“My errand is a very brief one,” said Horace. “I only wanted to inquire after my little pets, the boys. I hope Miss Burns will not consider me impertinent.”

“I thank you,” Anna said; “they are, both of them, out now.”

“Dear me, it is very late,” said Georgiana. “Good-by, Miss Burns. You wont forget?”

But the voice was colder, and Anna noticed it.

“I shall be at Miss Halstead’s command,” she said, gravely.

“And I shall do myself the honor of seeing her safely down the stairs,” said Horace.

She did not seem to hear him, but ran away through the passage. He stood a second irresolute. Anna’s grave face did not change; and after a few confused words he followed Georgiana Halstead down the stairs.

CHAPTER XIV.
LOVE AND MALICE.

Savage walked home with Georgiana Halstead, but there was little conversation between them. She was a good deal excited, and walked with a quick, almost impetuous step, while her eyes brightened, her lips parted, and a warm red came into her cheeks. She said nothing, and seemed almost to wish the handsome young fellow by her side far away; his presence annoyed her.

Savage was grave, anxious, and so pre-occupied that he did not observe this change in the graceful young creature whose friendship had always been so dear to him. When they reached Mrs. Halstead’s residence he hesitated a moment, lifted his hat, and said, with a smile,

“May I go in, Miss Georgie?”

“Certainly, of course; how rude I was,” she answered, and the color on her cheeks flushed over her whole face in a scarlet cloud. “They will all be glad to see you.”

“But I would rather see you alone, just for once, in your own pretty room—is it quite inadmissible?”

“In my room? Well, why not? Come this way. I only hope Aunt Eliza won’t be looking over the bannisters.”

Georgie laughed, in spite of all the painful feelings that swelled her young heart, when she looked upward, with her foot upon the first stair, and saw the long face of Miss Eliza peering down upon her.

Savage, too, caught a glimpse of the restless female, and joined Georgie in her sweet, low laugh, but decorously pretended not to see that tall figure as it drew back and darted away.

The young people entered Georgie’s little sitting-room. Savage placed his hat on one of the mosaic tables, Georgie placed her bonnet beside it, and threw her India shawl across a chair, unconsciously forming a sumptuous drapery which swept the carpet.

“Upon my word,” she said, shaking her bright curls loose, and pressing them back from her flushed cheeks with both hands, “this seems romantic. I wonder what Aunt Eliza will say?”

“Never mind what she says.”

“Oh! but you would mind, if she lived in the house with you; but there is dear, old grandmamma to help me out if she bears down too hard—so find yourself a chair. The fire is delightful after our cold walk. What a change it is from that room to this?”

Georgiana had seated herself in the Turkish chair, and sat nestled in its cushions, with the firelight glimmering over her as she made this remark. Savage drew a low ottoman to her side, and sat down upon it.

“You were thinking of that garret-room in the tenement-house?” he said.

“Yes, and thinking, too, how thoughtless and ungrateful I am for all this comfort, for which I have done nothing, while——”

Georgie broke off, and her eyes filled with tears, softly and brightly as violets gather dew.

“While that poor girl is compelled to toil for the bare necessaries of life; that’s what was in your heart, I know,” said Savage, taking her hand gently in his. “I—I would speak to you about her.”

“To me—and about her?” said Georgie, drawing her hand away. “I scarcely know her. She is a nice girl, I dare say; but why should any one wish to talk to me about her?”

“Because you are good and generous; because she is helpless and beautiful.”

“Beautiful!—is she? I did not particularly observe it. A brunette, isn’t she? Some people like that style. I—I—but you had something to say, and I interrupted you.”

“Oh, Miss Halstead! you could be of such service to this sweet girl.”

“I of service to her?” said Georgie, lifting her head with a little fling of pride. “I thank you for the idea. What does she want of me?”

“What, Anna Burns? Nothing. Poor girl! she is not one to ask help; but knowing you so good and gentle, I thought to interest you in her behalf. She is a lady.”

“Yes, yes! she is nice and very lady-like, I admit that; and good as she is beautiful. That means nothing, Mr. Savage. When beauty lies in the fancy of the beholder, we cannot measure other qualities by it,” said Georgie. “Please go on and tell me what I can do?”

“You can do every thing for this young girl. She is so lonely, so isolated in that comfortless place.”

“Yes, it is terrible,” cried Georgie, shivering among her cushions. “Yet you did not seem to find it so very disagreeable.”

“No place where she is can be disagreeable to me,” answered Savage, with deep feeling.

Georgie turned white, and shrunk back in her chair, as if some one had struck her. Her voice scarcely rose above a whisper when she forced it into words,

“You love this girl, then?”

“Love her, Georgie? Yes, better than my life—better than all the world beside!”

There was silence for a moment. Georgie’s lovely face grew cold and white as marble. She seemed to wither up like a flower cut at the stalks. The very lips were pale. At last an almost noiseless sob broke through them, and she started into life.

“Does she love you?”

“I hope, I think so. She has said as much.”

“And then?”

“Oh! my sweet friend, it is for her I want your help. I know how difficult it will be to reconcile my mother; she has such lofty expectations regarding me.”

“Who has not?” murmured Georgie.

“Do you know,” cried Savage, laughing, and patting her hand as if it had been a pet bird he was playing with, so much occupied that he did not feel its marble coldness, or read the agony in those shrinking eyes, “do you know she has set her heart on making a match between you and me; as if people who have played together in childhood ever fell in love with each other; but she will not give up this hope without a struggle, though I have told her fifty times that we like each other too well for love.”

“You are right, we do,” said the lovely young creature, sitting upright, and putting the hair back from her throbbing temples. “What an idea!” and a laugh broke from her which startled him a little; there was such a ring of pain in it.

“She is so fond of you, Georgie. Indeed, who could help it? Then we have been a good deal together. I got a habit of coming here somehow, and it wasn’t so very strange, after all; only it seems absurd to us, who never thought of such a thing.”

“Yes, very absurd,” cried Georgie, with another laugh, which brought fresh tears into her eyes.

“And now, when I am in such deadly earnest, when I would give the world to make Anna Burns my wife, even this foolish idea comes up as an obstacle.”

“But you have told your mother that there is nothing in it?”

“Yes, fifty times; but she will not believe me.”

“She will believe me when I tell her it is impossible—ridiculous!”

Poor Georgie, she caught her breath, and broke up a great sob before she could utter the word ridiculous; but carried it off with a laugh, which the blind young fellow passed over without a thought of the pain which made it sound so unlike her usual silvery outgushes of merriment.

“Will you do this, Georgie? Say that you never fancied me in that light, that nothing would induce you to marry me?”

“But she—she will hate me forever after,” said Georgie, mournfully; “and I think she did like me.”

“Oh! it will not last a month; and I—I shall love you so dearly for this help. Anna, also, you cannot think how much she admires you.”

“I am sure she is very kind.”

“Kind—no! She is only the most appreciative creature in the world. Then you are my friend?”

Georgie shrunk from all this praise, which was bitter when mingled with that of another so much more beloved than she ever was, and desperately changed the subject.

“But there was something else; you had more than this on your mind.”

“But I shall oppress you with my selfishness.”

“No, that you cannot. I—I shall only be too happy in serving you.”

“That is my old, dear friend,” cried the young man, looking brightly into her face, which must have struck him as strangely pallid but for the firelight that fell upon it. “Do you know, Georgie, that something in your way of receiving my confidence has almost chilled me?”

“Indeed, it is because you cannot read my heart—that is not cold; try it and see.”

“I am trying it,” answered Savage, quite unconscious of the cruel truth he spoke. “Last night, as I thought all this over in my room, I said if there is a creature on earth that I can trust, heart and soul, it is Georgiana Halstead.”

“And so you can,” cried Georgie, holding out both her trembling hands, which he clasped eagerly. “I am not very strong, and sometimes I have felt pain; but I will be your faithful friend.”

“And hers, Georgie?”

“Yes, and hers,” answered the young creature, bravely. “Now tell me what more can I do?”

“I will, Georgie. This girl, Anna Burns, you know, is very poor. Her father was an artist, and, I think, must have been educated as a gentleman, for his children have received great care; but he died in the army, and left his family helpless, even more destitute than you saw them to-day.”

“Dear me,” murmured Georgie, glad of any excuse to weep, “that seems scarcely possible.”

“How kind you are; so tender-hearted, so good—do not cry. How you sob! There, there! the worst of this suffering is over now. A little help will make them comfortable.”

Georgie buried her face in both hands, and gave way to the grief that had been struggling in her heart till it was almost broken.

Savage rose, and bent over her, smoothing her bright hair caressingly with his hand.

“Dear, tender-hearted girl,” he said, full of self-reproach: “and I thought her cold, unsympathizing. Georgie, can you forgive me?”

“Forgive you! forgive you!” repeated the poor girl, removing her hands, and lifting those deep, troubled eyes to his face. “Oh, yes! I am sure to forgive you; but what a child I have been, crying about troubles that are nothing. Now tell me what it is that I can do for these people. It is a shame that any man who has died fighting for his county should leave suffering to his family.”

“But many a soldier’s family have suffered, and will, notwithstanding the people’s gratitude. This is what I desire of you. This family are even now suffering great privation. It is terrible for refined and educated persons to be crowded, as they are, under the roof of a house crowded with low families. You saw how pale they were; what a look of weariness lay even on the faces of the children. They need neat, airy apartments, pure air, wholesome food. All this it would be easy to give; but I cannot do it in my own person.”

“Why not?” inquired Georgie, in her innocence.

Savage smiled, and began to smooth her hair again.

“Simply for this reason, dear friend: that nice old lady would not take a dollar of my money for any purpose; nor would Anna, I am certain. But from you it would be different. Let me find the money, and you shall be my agent—the fairest and sweetest that ever served a friend.”

“I understand now. Yes, you are right; they could not receive benefits from you; but I am different. Let me once reach their hearts, and all will be easy.”

“Then you will do this?”

“Why should you ask me? Have I not promised? But I only ask one privilege; let me tell grandmamma. She will help me as no one else can.”

“But will she consent? Will she keep our secret?”

“What, grandmamma? Of course she will.”

Here a knock at the door disturbed the young people. Savage drew back and leaned against the mantel-piece, while Georgie bade the intruder enter.

A servant came in with Miss Eliza Halstead’s compliments, and she trusted Mr. Savage would give her a few moments’ conversation up stairs before he left the house. Miss Eliza had something very particular, indeed, which she wished to communicate.

Mr. Savage sent word that he should be delighted to pay his respects to Miss Eliza, and would do himself that honor in a few minutes.

The servant closed the door. Then Savage, with ardent thanks, that went to the young girl’s heart like arrows tipped with flame, took his leave of Georgiana, and left her alone with her wounded life.

Miss Eliza had been in a state of wild commotion from the moment she saw young Savage enter the house from her stand-point over the banisters. She, too, had her boudoir, which, however, was half dressing-room, into which she made a plunge with a breathless determination to convert the confusion, which usually reigned there, into a state of picturesque elegance, suggestive of her own poetic mind. To this end she hustled a pile of paper-covered books, two or three pairs of old slippers, a faded bouquet, and a dilapidated dressing-case into the next room; dusted the tables with a fold of her morning-wrapper, in which she had been indolently reading, and then took a general survey of the apartment. Over the small centre-table, which she had just dusted, hung a basket of artificial flowers, somewhat faded and dusty, but in good preservation, considering that they had done duty for more than one season on Miss Eliza’s head. Over this, apparently plunging downward, as if intent on burying himself in the flowers, dust or no dust, was a moderately-sized cupid, white as snow, suspended to the ceiling by an invisible wire, and holding his arms out toward the flowers which that envious wire permitted him to contemplate, but forbade him to reach.

Miss Eliza glanced up at the cupid with a simpering smile, made a dash at the basket with her handkerchief, which set both that and the cupid in motion, and made another application to the table necessary; then scattering some books over it in picturesque confusion, she took a volume of Tennyson, laid it open, with the leaves downward, on the edge of the table, drew an easy-chair into position, and hurried into her bed-chamber.

Miss Eliza never allowed any person to witness the mysteries of her toilet, so I cannot describe what took place in the inner room. But after a time she came forth, radiant, in a white merino dress, ruffled half a yard deep with convolutions of blue ribbons. Long streamers of the same color fell from the clustering bows on her shoulders, and another ribbon was drawn, snood fashion, through a mass of crimped hair lifted high from her temples, and floated off airily with a mass of curls that fell from the back of her head.

Miss Eliza rang the bell, turned up her eyes with a devout look, which made the little cupid tremble on his wire, and sunk into her easy-chair, smiling upon the folds of her dress as they settled around her with statuesque effect. Then a new idea seized upon her. A gardiniere, full of plants, stood in one of the windows. In eager haste Miss Eliza gathered therefrom two or three sweet-scented geranium leaves, and a half-open rose; these she placed on her bosom, and returned to her seat beneath the cupid, and sat waiting with her hand upon the volume of Tennyson, and one foot pressed upon an ottoman, as if she had been sitting for a portrait.

I am certain she heard that light footstep the moment it touched the stairs, thick as the carpet was, for a soft flutter of delight stirred her garments as if they had been the plumage of a bird; and starting suddenly, she stood a moment on the ottoman, flirting her handkerchief upward till the cupid went off in an ecstasy of motion, and seemed quite unable to contain itself. Then she settled down again, and cried out softly, “Come in,” when Savage knocked at the door.

“Oh, Mr. Savage! how long you have been in coming,” she said, reaching forth her left hand with a motion which threw the sleeve back from an arm that had once been round and white, but keeping her seat all the time, not caring to destroy the effect of her position. “Indeed, you are too bad, I have quite thrilled myself with Tennyson waiting for you.”

“I have but just got your summons, Miss Halstead,” said Savage.

“Indeed! but there are moments in life when moments seem like ages.”

“Oh! don’t talk of ages, Miss Halstead, it makes one feel so old!”

Miss Eliza waved her head with a gentle smile, and looked upward, which assured her that the cupid was softly vibrating above her.

“Ah, Mr. Savage! there ever will exist persons who cannot grow old!”

Savage bowed, and answered that it needed no words to convince him that she spoke truly. The young man laid his hand on the back of a chair as he spoke; but removing her foot from the ottoman, she motioned him to sit there.

“Forgive me, I dare not presume,” he said. “Once at your feet, I might never be able to leave them.”

Miss Eliza looked down modestly, and a sigh disturbed the geranium leaves on her bosom.

“You sent for me, Miss Halstead?” said Savage, a little embarrassed by these gentle demonstrations.

“Sent for you? Oh, yes! But let us waive the subject a little longer; it will be soon enough for the serpent to creep into our paradise when it cannot be kept out.” She glanced upward, and Savage, following her eyes, saw the god of love hovering over them. Spite of himself a smile broke all over his face.

Miss Eliza had reached a phase in her programme which required a drooping of the eyelashes, and she lost the smile while performing her part.

“We were speaking of age,” she said, dreamily; “not that it is a subject which can, as yet, interest either of us; but I sometimes think that the lightness of selfish enjoyment and surface life of mere youth is more unendurable than age itself. There is my niece down stairs now——”

“What! Georgie? She is the very embodiment of all that is sweet and lovable in youth. You cannot say more in her praise than I will indorse heart and soul,” cried Savage, whose heart was brimful of gratitude for the young creature who, all unknown to him, was weeping so bitterly in the room below. “If you wish to depicture all the grace and bloom of youth in its perfection, a lovelier object could not be found.”

Miss Eliza moved restlessly in her chair, clasped her hand fiercely in the folds of her dress, and choked back the venom that burned for utterance with the resolution of a martyr.

“You—you think so? Well, yes; the same roof shelters us, and magnanimity is always a virtue. Georgiana is, as you say, very lovely; and no one can dispute that she is young—verdantly so, I fear. Why, Mr. Savage, you would hardly believe it, but she—in her innocence, I will not say obstinacy—is always doing the most extraordinary things. Why, this very day she has been in one of the most extraordinary neighborhoods, absolutely disreputable, and visiting a house—really, I cannot tell you how low her associates sometimes are. I expostulated with her, reasoned with her; but it was of no earthly use; go she would, and go she did.”

“But where did she go? I do not understand.”

“You remember that night when you first knelt at my feet before an admiring multitude. Oh! shall I ever forget it! There was a young person admitted into social communication with the choice few, by what influence we will not now wait to question, who was absolutely raked up from the very dregs of society—a poor sewing-girl. Worse than that, a creature brought up in one of those loathsome dens called tenement-houses; a low bred——”

“Madam—Miss Halstead!” cried Savage, while his face wore one flush of indignation.

“I do not wonder that you are astonished,” persisted Miss Eliza. “It was an insult; no amount of prettiness could excuse it—not that I think the creature pretty, far from it. Well, this girl, after standing up in one of the most vulgar, poverty-stricken pictures you ever saw, in her real dress, and character, too, flaunted herself in velvet, and gold, and jewels, as Rebecca, in a gorgeous tableau, with young Gould as the Templar. This was directly after our exquisite representation, and, I dare say, intended to rival it. Well, somehow, Georgiana, who is always doing childish things, got acquainted with the girl then and there, behind the scenes, I believe, where the artful thing had pretended to faint.”

“Oh! Miss Halstead, this is too much!” exclaimed Savage, starting up with anger in his eyes.

“I thought that you would feel this keenly, knowing how nearly Georgiana, foolish child, is related to myself,” resumed Miss Eliza, with great self-complacency. “And this generous indignation touches me to the heart. Oh! it is so sweet to be thoroughly appreciated. But this is not all; Georgiana was full of this girl’s praises, pitied her, raved about her beauty-beauty, indeed! but that was to annoy me—the silliness of youth is often very malicious; and at last went off to the horrid place where this creature lives, in defiance of my wishes, in absolute scorn of my opinion. This very day she visited this disreputable creature in her garret, as if she had been an equal.”

“Disreputable!” repeated Savage, starting up, pale with suppressed wrath. “Miss Halstead, I cannot listen to this. I, too, have visited the young lady you condemn so bitterly.”

“Young lady, Mr. Savage! and to me!” faltered Miss Eliza, with a flame of natural color overpowering the permanent roses of her cheek. “Great heavens! to me!”

“Yes, Miss Halstead, I said lady; and that Miss Anna Burns certainly is, if one ever lived.”

Miss Eliza grew livid about her mouth and forehead; even her hands turned coldly white.

“A lady, and live in that house!” she said, with a snarling laugh.

“Yes, madam; even there.”

“Madam! You call me madam—you!” cried the spinster, burying her face between both hands. “Has it come to this, and for her sake?”

“Poverty, undeserved poverty does not change a refined nature. That girl, madam, is good, gentle, intelligent. Her presence would make any place beautiful.”

“Oh! oh! my heart, my heart!” cried Miss Eliza, pressing both hands to her side, and rocking to and fro in her chair. “These words pierce me like a poisoned arrow!”

“Forgive me; I do not wish to be harsh; but this young girl is so unprotected.”

“Forgive you! Alas! this poor heart has no choice,” cried the lady, reaching out her arms with touching impulsiveness. “Its fibres are too delicate; the touch of woe wounds it. With me, forgiveness is a sweet duty.”

A smile quivered over the young man’s lip, spite of anger; at which Miss Eliza drew in her arms, and clasped her hands, with a deep, deep sigh.

“Oh! how grieved you will be when the whole is told you,” she said, seating herself on the chair he had resigned, and clasping her fingers over the hand which still rested on its back. “You have been in that house? Horrible desecration! I shudder to think of it. How you have wronged me. It was not this creature’s poverty that shocked me so, but her depravity.”

“Depravity!”

“Her artfulness! her duplicity! Do not look at me so sternly. I, too, have been in that tenement-house.”

“You, Miss Eliza?”

“Yes, even that I have endured, in hopes of saving our Georgiana from a dangerous acquaintance. I have seen the woman who keeps the house—a coarse, vicious creature, buried to her knees in slop-work, who eyed me like a terrier when I went in, and would hardly stop working while I inquired about the people up stairs. A weak person might have been driven away by this rudeness; but I had a duty to perform, and that thought gave me courage. I took out my porte-monnaie and laid some money in her lap; then she told me all—all!”

Savage, spite of himself, grew interested; for now Eliza spoke naturally, and seemed really in earnest; her dull eyes lighted up with venomous fire. She was eager as a snake when it charms a bird to destruction.

“And what did she tell you?” he said, ashamed of the question as he uttered it.

“Mr. Savage, I had seen this girl more than once in the street, talking with gentlemen.”

Savage blushed crimson.

“With gentlemen, Miss Eliza? I know that you saw her once with me, coming from my mother’s.”

“Yes, I saw it. Oh! God forgive you the pang the sight gave me—but that was not all. I said gentlemen.”

“You saw her with some one else, then?”

“I did, and who—a gamester—a blackleg—a hotel-lounger—that Ward, who is so much with young Gould.”

“What! Ward? And you saw him walking with Anna Burns?”

“Worse than that; I saw them standing together on the public pavement, conversing earnestly.”

“But that might have been innocent enough.”

“Yes; but was it quite so innocent when he followed her home an hour after?”

Savage laid his hand almost fiercely on the spinster’s shoulder.

“Woman, is this the truth?”

“Do you question it? I saw him with my own eyes enter the house. Georgiana’s infatuation about the girl made me vigilant.”

“But this was only once,” said the young man, desperately. “I cannot believe she encouraged him in this impudence.”

“This was the first time; but he went there again and again—I know it—I am sure of it; the woman told me so.”

Savage clenched his teeth hard, and, going up to the gardiniere, tore a branch from the geranium and flung it angrily from him.

“It is impossible—I will not believe it,” he said, with passionate violence. “There is some combination against her.”

“What combination could have induced this gambler, Ward, to hire a room and become an inmate in this squalid house?”

“And is this so?”

“The woman herself showed me his chamber—a miserable, shabby room, for which he had paid the rent in advance, she stated.”

“Great heavens! this is terrible! Woman, woman, I charge you, tell me the truth! Is there no mistake in this?” His lips quivered, his eyes were bright with pain.

“Go to the woman yourself if you doubt me,” was the answer. “Then say if I am not right in forbidding our Georgiana ever to enter that place again. She may be obstinate enough to insist; but I shall have done my duty.”

Miss Eliza folded her hands over each other, and rubbed them gently as she spoke. Savage looked at her with no pleasant expression in his eyes. Up to this time she had amused him by her ridiculous affectation; but now he began to hate her, for he saw under all her extravagance a vein of bitter malice, subtle as the venom of a serpent. He could not altogether disbelieve her, but detested her the more for that. We never love, and seldom forgive, those who destroy our illusions.

Miss Eliza took the half-open rose from her bosom, blew a kiss into its leaves, and gave it to him.

“We have wasted some precious minutes on this worthless girl,” she said, “let this compensate for the annoyance.”

Savage took the rose and crushed it ruthlessly in his hand.

“As I could crush her!” he muttered, turning away and leaving the room before Eliza had time to stop him.

She started up and ran to the door, calling out, “Mr. Savage! Mr. Savage!”

He heard her, and muttered something between his teeth, which was neither a compliment nor a blessing. That moment he was opposite the door of Georgiana’s room.

“I ought to go in and release her from that kind promise; but not yet—not yet. I have not the courage to tell her yet. Besides, it may be false—it may be false! Georgiana, herself, did not seem more innocent than she was; and the old woman, too—was all her sweetness put on? I have heard of such things—seen them, too. The meekest looking woman I ever saw had murdered two husbands, and was caught looking out for a third. If mother Burns is one of that sort, no wonder her grandchild is mistress of her art. But it is not true—I cannot believe it. So sweet, so gentle, so——”

With a gesture of passionate grief Savage turned from the door of Georgie’s room, which he had almost opened, and hurried down stairs. Miserable, jealous, and burning with fierce indignation, he followed a passionate instinct, and went directly into the neighborhood where Anna Burns lived. He had formed no positive design, but went blindly to work, fearing that every step he took would tear that dear image from his heart, yet eager to seize upon the bitter truth. Following the scent of fried ham, which came to him on the stairs, he knocked at an ill-fitting door, through which a hissing sound bespoke the fair progress of some meal, and was told by a loud voice to come in.

It was the room which we have once described, and the same coarse, repulsive woman presided in it. But this time she was busy over a cooking-stove, turning some slices of ham in a short-handled frying-pan, where they hissed and sent off steam, as if she were torturing them with her knife. A basket, crowded full of slop-work, stood in one corner of the room, and a little side-thimble lay upon the narrow window-sill, close by a cushion of scarlet cloth, bristling all over with coarse needles and crooked pins.

When Savage entered the room, the woman turned her face, which flamed out, hot and red, from its cloud of steam, and stood, with her knife half suspended, waiting for him to speak.

“Madam, are you the mistress of this house?” he said, lifting the hat from his head.

“I believe they generally call me so,” she answered, bending the point of her knife against the stove. “Wont you walk in and help yourself to a chair?”

“No, thank you. I come to inquire for a gentleman who has a room here, I think—Mr. Ward.”

“Oh! that’s it, is it?” exclaimed the woman. “Didn’t know but it might be another big-bug struck with a liking for the house. Suppose it must be because they’ve took sich a fancy to me all at once. Anna Burns has nothing to do with it. Oh, no!”

Here the woman thrust her knife under a slice of ham and turned it over with emphasis, laughing a low, disagreeable laugh, and shaking her head, as if greatly enjoying her own words.

“You want to see Mr. Ward?” she said at last, coming out of her laugh. “Jest mount the next stairs, and you’ll find his room on the left, right under their’n. I shouldn’t wonder if he ain’t at home, though. Never had a more uncertain person under this roof. But then I never had a genuine big-bug afore. Wait a minute, and I’ll show you the way.”

“No, thank you, I can find it,” answered Savage, turning away white and faint. Until that moment he had hoped that something might arise to refute Miss Eliza’s slander—but bitter confirmation met him at every step. He made no effort to see Ward; indeed, had no intention of meeting him from the first. His name had only been used as an excuse for questioning that fiery-faced woman, who was cross and coarse, but not bad at heart.

“If you want a room, or any thing of that sort, I may as well out with it, and say that it can’t be had,” cried that female, standing up resolutely with the knife in her hand. “It don’t set easy on my conscience letting in that other chap. There’s something mean and underhanded about his coming here, or I don’t know good from bad. The fact is, I offered him his money back, and would a put up with the loss; but he said he had got friends in the house, and couldn’t think of it. This riled me more than any thing, for I had a liking for that old woman and the girl, to say nothing of the little boys, that are worth their weight in gold, going up and down stairs chattering and laughing so bright; and I told him it was a shame to come here just to unsettle a poor young cretur’s head that had got trouble enough already. At which he laughed and hitched up his shoulders, and woke up my temper till I could a boxed his ears, and gloried over it like sixty, if it hadn’t been for the law, which makes sich things salt and battery, and six months in the penitentiary; which I shouldn’t like, being respectable, and working for one of the best clothing houses in the city, besides hiring this house on speculation; and a purty speculation it’s been, one month in advance, and then three dunning for—and obliged to turn ’em out at last; except that family in the top, I never dunned them, poor creturs! and wouldn’t anyhow, knowing that they would starve rather than not pay, if they had it. Poor girl! Poor girl! I feel as if I’d helped to hunt her down, somehow, and it sets hard here.”

The woman placed her hand, knife and all, against her right side, solemnly impressed with an idea that her heart lay in that direction; and a heavy sigh was lost in the hissing which rose from the frying-pan.

“No, no! I’ll have nothing to do with tenants that come here with kid gloves and coral studs in their bosom. It isn’t for me, a hard-working woman, to put temptation in the way of my own sect. So, if You’d just as lieve, I’d rather you wouldn’t come here no more. I’ve seen you more an once going up to the top of the house, and it kinder made the heart ache in my bosom.”

Savage listened to all this with an aching heart and changing countenance. The coarse, hard honesty of the woman enforced his respect; and he stood with his hat off gazing upon her with strange interest.

“It is not likely that I ever shall come again,” he said, with a pang at his heart, laying his hand on the door-knob.

“It was that live-folks picture that did it,” said the woman; “afore that time no living creature ever went to see them. Now it is ladies in their flounces and with lace parasols; and gentlemen in broadcloth, cutting up and down all the time. I wish they’d a let the poor soul alone.”

“And so do I,” answered Savage, with deep feeling. “It was kindly meant. But I will bid you good-day, madam. If I should ever come here again, pray believe that it is with no unworthy motive. I cannot permit you to think otherwise in common self-respect.”

“Well, then, don’t come again, and I’ll believe you. In fact, I do now. There’s a difference between gentlemen and gentlemen. I only wish the other chap had a face that could turn red and white like yours. The long and the short of it is, I wish he was straight out of my house; that poor child don’t seem like the same cretur since he came here.”

Savage did not stay to ask in what this change consisted, the subject had become altogether too painful; so, with a bend of his head, he went out. One moment he paused upon the staircase; his heart turned with passionate longing toward that lonely upper room. Even in her unworthiness, he yearned to look upon Anna’s face once more; to hear her sweet voice proclaim the innocence he never could believe in again. But he thought of Ward, the gambler and convenient toady, whom so many men used in his scoundrelism, and despised, as they used him, with a sensation of such intense loathing, that it turned his very compassion away from the young creature he had loved with such self-sacrificing truth.

“Had it been any one else,” he muttered through his shut teeth, “I could have borne it better; but this paltry wretch, this miserable hound! Great heavens! and she, so gentle, so exquisitely pure! It is beyond belief. Never till now did I believe in the utter duplicity of the sex. Poor girl! Poor, wrecked girl! Could she have known how I loved her?”

With these thoughts, which broke in half-formed words against his shut teeth, the young man went down stairs, and into the poverty-stricken neighborhood beyond, feeling, for the first time, in all its force, how squalid and offensive it was. Scarcely had his foot touched the pavement, when he saw Anna Burns coming down the side-walk with a small parcel in her hand. Her face lighted up as she saw him, her cheeks dimpled, and a warm love-glow came into her eyes. Savage stood motionless, looking at her with his stern eyes on fire, and his lips set.

She did not see the expression of his face, for, after the first glad recognition, her eyelids had drooped in shame at her own eager joy, and she came up to him shrinking and covered with blushes—came up and held out her hand; for was he not her declared lover, this brave, handsome young fellow, whom any lady of the land would have gloried in.

Savage did not touch that eager little hand, but lifting his hat with haughty coldness, walked on, leaving her chilled with dismay. She turned and looked after him with a cry of surprised pain, scarcely kept back from the parted lips which closed slowly, and seemed freezing into marble as his stern, unyielding footsteps bore him further and further away. Then, just as he was turning a corner, the cry broke from her, “Oh, come back! Come back!” and turning wildly, she ran a few steps after him, till she was checked on the pavement, her face so wildly pale, coming suddenly opposite that of young Ward, who seized one of her hands, and asked what it was that had frightened her so.

That moment Savage turned the corner and looked back.

CHAPTER XV.
A HARD-HEARTED VILLAIN.

Ward attempted to draw Anna’s hand through his own, but she resisted him, and at last tore it away in passionate anger.

“Mr. Ward,” she said, “this is unkind—it is rude. You have no right to take such liberties with me.”

There was fire enough in those eyes, then, and a world of scorn on the lovely mouth. She turned one look in the direction which Savage had taken, saw that he was gone, and turned fiercely upon Ward again.

“You are wicked—you are cruel!” she said. “Knowing how helpless I am, you persecute me horribly!”

“I persecute you, sweet one—the idea! Is it in this way you mistake my adoration?”

Anna’s red lips curved with scorn; her eyes flashed, her whole form trembled.

“Great heavens!” she exclaimed, “I never knew what a terrible thing poverty was before. But for that you could not have forced yourself under the same roof with a poor, helpless girl; but for that you dare not have spoken to me.”

“Do not accuse poverty for the acts which spring out of love, sweet one.”

Anna heard no more; but gathering her shawl about her with the haughty grace of an empress, she turned away from him and walked quickly into the house. The young gambler followed her, laughing; the excitement of her anger charmed him. Quickly as he walked, Anna had mounted the third flight of stairs before he entered the passage. He just caught a glimpse of her dress on the upper landing, and that was all. But he went up stairs, smiling to himself and humming a tune, conscious of his power to see her almost when he pleased.

Old Mrs. Burns was busy darning the only tablecloth in that poor establishment, when Anna came in, all on fire with wounded affection and outraged pride.

“Grandmother,” she said, “we must move; this house is no place for us. Let us go to-night—this hour!”

The old lady was holding up the tablecloth between her eyes and the light, searching for more broken threads. She dropped it suddenly as her granddaughter spoke, and gazed at her a moment in anxious wonder.

“What is it, Anna? Who has troubled you, dear?”

“That young man in the room below. I haven’t told you of it before, grandmother, but he is always in my way. I cannot go up or down stairs that he does not say things to me which seem insulting, situated as we are.”

“My poor child! poor, dear, little Anna!” said the old lady, going up to the excited girl and smoothing the rich waves of her hair as if she had been a child. “Perhaps the young man means no harm. What sort of a person is he?”

“A dandy; a pitiful——”

Here Anna’s anger flowed out, and she burst into tears.

“There, there! Don’t cry so, child! What did the young man say to you?”

“Say—say? I don’t remember, grandma. Nothing, I think; only he held my hand so close, and he saw it——Oh! it is too bad—it is too bad!”

“Be tranquil, Anna. I cannot think what has come over you. Why, your eyes are full of smothered shame; your lips tremble, you are giving way altogether. Sit down quietly, and tell me what it is all about.”

“I will, grandmother. I know it is a shame to take on so, but that man is enough to drive one mad. What is he doing in this house? Robert says that he is a gentleman, and a great friend of young Mr. Gould’s. He can have no honest business here.”

The old lady sat down in her rocking-chair, and sat thoughtfully gazing in Anna’s face. She was a timid woman, and poverty had fastened its depressing influence on all her faculties. But there was moral force asleep in her nature yet; the color came and went in her old cheek; her soft, brown eyes grew resolute in their expression.

“There is no one to protect us—no one to say a word in our behalf,” said Anna, with a fresh outburst of tears. “Robert is too young. Oh! what can we do—what can we do?”

The old lady arose from her chair, and going up to a tiny looking-glass which hung on the wall, smoothed the gray hair under her cap with two little withered hands that shook like aspen-leaves. Then, with a look of gentle resolution on her face, she softly opened the door and went down stairs.

Young Ward was lying upon his bed with a segar in his mouth. He lay prone on his back, and sent up clouds of smoke with a vehemence which seemed to have filled his moustache and hair with smouldering fire. He turned lazily as the old lady knocked, and emitting a fresh volume of smoke, called out,

“Come in! Why the deuce don’t you come in?”

Mrs. Burns came gently through the door, and stood a pace inside the threshold gazing at him. Ward started up, flung his feet over the side of the bed, and looked his astonishment at this intrusion.

“How do you do, ma’am? Glad to see you. Take a seat. This seems neighborly. Excuse my dressing-gown; free-and-easy in my room here. Did not expect the honor of a lady’s company, but glad to have it. Sit down.”

Mrs. Burns took a chair near the bed, and, folding both hands in her lap, turned her eyes full upon the flushed face turned upon her.

“Mr. Ward—I believe that is your name?”

“Certainly. Nothing could be more correct,” answered Ward, thrusting his foot into an embroidered slipper trodden down at the heel, which had dropped to the floor; “delighted that you remember it.”

“Mr. Ward, we are two helpless creatures—my grandchild and myself; one from age, the other because of her youth. A more helpless family, in fact, does not exist. We have nothing in the wide world but our good name, and the work of our hands to live on. Unhappily! most unhappily! my granddaughter, Anna, is so pretty that men turn to look at her in the street; and even ladies think much of her on that account.”

“They are deuced jealous of her, I can tell you that,” burst forth young Ward, puffing away at his segar, which was half extinguished. “And no wonder; she cuts into them all hollow. Of course, men turn to look at her in the street; they don’t see a figure and face like that often, I can tell you. Then her instep, one sees it now and then coming up stairs, you know, when her dress is looped up—and it’s Spanish, absolutely Spanish, I can tell you. My dear madam, you have got a treasure of beauty in that girl—you have, indeed; I give you my honor upon it.”

“I have come,” said the old lady, ignoring this speech, though a flush of red came across her withered cheek, and the hands moved restlessly in her lap, “I have come to tell you how unprotected we are, and how hard it is for us to get a living. I have come to ask a great favor of you.”

“What! want money? All right. I thought it would come to that! How much? I’ll stand a pretty heavy pull; hang me, if I wont.

Ward flouted his slipper on the floor, and, drawing a porte-monnaie from one of his pockets, took out a roll of treasury-notes.

This time the color in the old woman’s face burned into scarlet.

“I did not mean that, young man—I did not mean that. The favor I want is more important to us than all the money you possess.”

Ward put the roll of bills slowly back into his porte-monnaie, and closed it with a loud snap.

“Not want money? Then in the name of Jupiter! what is it you are after?”

“I wish you to give up this room and leave the house. This is no place for a rich man like you. It is injuring us cruelly—my granddaughter most of all.”

Ward fell back upon the bed and laughed aloud.

“This is splendid!” he cried. “Give up my room! Why, you precious old thing, I like the room—it’s a capital place to hide away in. Besides, I am one of the fellows who think your granddaughter handsome. No harm in that, I hope. Like to see her going up and down stairs; steps like a fairy; lifts her head like a princess. Smoke at ease here; admire beauty at my leisure. Why should you wish to break up these little innocent enjoyments? It is inhuman—I would not have thought it of you.”

“Your presence under the same roof with my girl is sure to injure her. People will not know that we cannot prevent it.”

“But I know it. I, at least, do ample justice to the subject. You can no more force me to leave this pleasant room than you can change the moon.”

“I do not hope to force your absence, but come in all kindness to say how much your stay here is injuring us. I come to entreat, implore you not to force us away from the only shelter we have. Here the woman of the house is kind to us, and that makes it seem like home. My son died fighting for his country—perhaps you did not know that. When he was with us we were very comfortable, and so happy. Now, the children have no one but me; and I am only a weak old woman; but my child’s good name must not be lost. We were getting a little comfortable, just now; but if you will stay, we must go.”

“Go!” exclaimed Ward, in sudden excitement. “You really don’t mean that, old lady?”

“It is hard. I am an old woman, and age shrinks from change. We had got used to the rooms; but if we must go, we must! Heaven help us!”

Mrs. Burns arose as she spoke, and stood with one hand on the chair, looking sadly on the floor. At last she lifted her brown eyes mournfully to his, and turned away. Poor thing! She did not know how to struggle, but she was patient to endure.

I think the young man was a little disturbed by the expression of those eyes, for the fire went out from his segar, and he flung it away half consumed, muttering something between his teeth that sounded like an exclamation of self-loathing.

“I’ll go and see Gould,” he said, throwing his dressing-gown across a chair, and thrusting his arms into a coat. “No, I wont, either! Hang it all, I’m getting too fond of the girl myself; half tempted to marry her, and get religion. That sweet old woman, now, would be like a sermon in one’s house. If one only had a nice little fortune—income sure? How easy it is for rich men to be good. But we fellows that live by our wits, find ‘Jordan a hard road to travel.’ I wish that old lady had stayed away. I can stand the girl’s haughty airs, for anger fires up her beauty into something wonderful; but that sweet, low voice; those poor little hands, trembling like birds in the cold; and those eyes, take a fellow’s spirit out of his bosom. I think they reminded me of my own mother. Well, I’ll think about going away, poor, old woman; if it was only her, I’d quit at once—I would, indeed!”

Mrs. Burns heard nothing of this; she had left the room, and was knocking faintly at her landlady’s door.

“Come in.”

Mrs. Burns obeyed the summons, and entered the room with which our readers are acquainted. The landlady sat on a low chair, with her foot on the round of another chair, and the seam of a coarse jacket pinned to her knee. She looked up, holding her thread half drawn, and pushing the chair on which her foot rested, asked her tenant to sit down, a little roughly—for she was not quite satisfied with the aspect of things with the family up stairs.

Mrs. Burns sat down, and the landlady bent to her work again.

“Any thing stirring?” she inquired, pressing the needle through a thick double-seam with the side of her steel thimble. “A good deal of going up and down stairs lately—tramp, tramp! nothing but tramp! Getting to have lots of genteel company in your story? Silks a rustling, and patent-leather boots a cracking all the day long. How’s Anna?”

“She is not very well. We are in a little trouble just now, and that’s what brings me here. I think we shall have to move.”

“Move! Mrs. Burns! Has it come to that? These premises ain’t genteel enough for you, I dare say. It’s all that girl’s doings, I’ll bet. Expected it from the minute that young fellow came into the house! Scamp!”

“That is the reason we must go. We haven’t had a happy minute since he came here.”

“Then you want to get away from him—is that it?” cried the landlady, fixing her greenish-gray eyes on the sad face turned so innocently toward her.

“Yes; that is the only reason we wish to go. People will think something wrong of it if a man who dresses so well, and spends so much money, is seen often with a girl like my Anna. And he will insist on walking by her if she goes out. She came home crying only a few minutes ago, because he stopped her in the street.”

“Scamp!” exclaimed the landlady, jerking her needle out with snappish vigor. “Deserves to be kicked into the middle of next week!”

“I have just been to his room.”

The landlady dropped the heavy work down into her lap, overcome with astonishment.

“You?”

“I asked him to go away; told him how much we had become attached to the rooms; how hard it would be for us to break up—but it did no good.”

“He wouldn’t go himself, and having received two months’ rent in advance, I can’t make him. There’s the worst of it, or he’d go out neck and heels, quicker than you ever saw a fellow go down stairs in all your born days, Mrs. Burns.”

The landlady thrust her needle in and out so vigorously as she spoke, that it plunged into her thumb at the termination of this sentence.

“Serves me right!” she said, thrusting her thumb into her mouth. “Serves me right, for letting the stuck-up creature in. But I’ll make the house too hot for him; see if I don’t—boil cabbage and fry onions every day of my life, with the fireboard up and the door open. Just as like as not his night-key won’t fit some day when he wants to come in. Will have the lock changed as sure as I live. I’ve offered the fellow his money back, and he won’t take it. Well, we’ll see. But you’re not going away, Mrs. Burns; rather than that I’ll go in and out with Anna myself. Owe her that much for thinking she could like the fellow. I’d like to see him, or anybody else, speak to her when I’m on hand. Standing down by the door to look at her feet as she goes up stairs. I’ve seen him do it. If he wants to look at anybody’s feet, let him look at mine.”

“I am afraid we must move,” said Mrs. Burns, sadly enough. “You have been so kind to us, it seems almost like a funeral to go away.”

“You shan’t go! That is the long and short of it. Wait a little, and if the cabbage and onions fail, I’ll think of something else; for go he shall, and go you shan’t—there!”

Mrs. Burns arose, irresolute. She loved the humble rooms which had sheltered her deepest affliction; and her heart yearned toward the semblance of home they gave her.

“Wait a few days,” said the landlady.

“Yes, I will wait. You are very good; but then everybody is so good to us.”

“Goodness breeds goodness. I don’t believe there is a creature on earth bad enough to be hard with you, Mrs. Burns. I try to be like you sometimes, but it isn’t in me.”

“It is in you to be considerate and kind to those who most need kindness,” said Mrs. Burns, with tears in her eyes.

“Yes, but I’ve got such a way of doing it—rough as a chestnut-burr; but I don’t mean any harm to a living creature—quite the contrary.”

“You have done nothing but good to us,” said Mrs. Burns, opening the door in her soft, quiet way; “and God will bless you for it.”

“That’s the kind of woman that people call the salt of the earth,” muttered the landlady, as her tenant went out; “her very look makes me a better woman. Yet I was thinking hard of her only a few minutes ago. Well that was the old native Adam in me. I wonder how she managed to drive him out. Going to prayer meeting won’t do it. I’ve tried that; but then she is so different.”

CHAPTER XVI.
THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT.

Miss Eliza Halstead was not a person at all likely to leave any stone unturned which lay in the path of her love. She knew something of the power which beauty has over a young heart, and feared Savage might seek some explanation that would exculpate Anna Burns from the evil that she had imputed to her—for so powerful is genuine innocence that even prejudice feels its influence, let circumstances be ever so much against it.

Scarcely had Savage left the house, when Miss Eliza put on her lilac bonnet, with its crush-roses and point-lace. Carefully she smoothed the strings, and puffed out the bows with her long fingers, leaving pink shadows all around her face, almost as effective as the bloom of youth. When she had sufficiently elaborated this portion of her toilet, she wrapped a costly shawl around her, and stole softly out of the house, resolved to keep her visit and its object a secret.

Mrs. Savage was at home; and would she walk directly up stairs.

Yes. Miss Eliza swept her trailing silks up the broad staircase, settling her shawl as she went—for she was forever arranging and rearranging her dress, in-doors and out. Twice she paused before a mirror, impanneled in the wall, and examined the flow of her long skirt, over both shoulders, before she entered the room in which Mrs. Savage was waiting, with Miss Eliza’s card in her hand.

“What can she mean?” murmured the lady, reading over some writing in pencil above the name. “Something to communicate of the utmost importance to the honor of the family—but here she comes. My dear Miss Halstead, I am delighted! How good of you to come. Sit down here; you will find it more comfortable.”

No. Miss Eliza preferred to sit with her back to the light. It took her some minutes to compose her drapery; but at last she settled down in the crimson easy-chair, like some tropical bird in its nest, and was ready for the occasion.

“Lovely weather, isn’t it?” observed Mrs. Savage, with her blandest smile. “What a color the air has given you.”

“Yes,” answered Miss Eliza, tightening her glove. “My complexion is so exquisitely sensitive, that a breath of air brings the bloom to my cheeks.”

Mrs. Savage smiled a graceful acquiescence to this self-praise, and hoped Miss Eliza would never feel, as she did, any lack of youthful bloom.

“When the time comes,” Miss Eliza said, with a smile of conscious superiority, “I must submit, like others. But, Mrs. Savage, I came on a painful and humiliating errand; excuse me, if I am compelled to give you pain; but, after your great kindness in throwing me into the same picture with your son, I feel like a traitor till you know all.”

Mrs. Savage bent her stately head, and replied that she was listening with attention.

“After that evening, which seemed to give a dawning hope of union between the houses of Savage and Halstead, you will imagine, dear lady, that my thoughts, hopes, prayers, were all hovering around your son. Knowing well that our mutual passion had maternal sanction, I allowed the pent-up feelings of a too ardent nature to gush forth, till I fear your noble son saw too clearly into the state of my affections. I strove to conceal the rush of tender emotions that awoke to the sound of his very footstep; but there are souls so transparent, that a child can read them. For a time, dear lady, all was hope, all was happiness; true as the needle to the pole myself, I had profound confidence in your son. For a time his conduct was all that the most devoted heart could desire—I was his ideal, his love, his divinity. Though he was too delicate to say all this, I felt it, madam, in the very core of this heart.”

Here Miss Eliza pressed a fold of a shawl that covered her bosom, and went on.

“Then came a frost—a killing frost! Oh! my dear madam—mother, may I not call you? that girl—that creature—who received your bounty but to betray it, has broken in upon my pure dream of happiness. Your son has, for some time, left the refinements which circle around my home, and, regardless of breaking the heart that has learned to adore him, has given his time and his attentions to that creature.”

“What!” exclaimed Mrs. Savage, starting up from her elegant apathy, her face flaming with passion, her plump hand clenched, “my son—my son, Horace Savage, visiting Anna Burns! Miss Halstead, you are crazy with jealousy; stung to death in your vanity, to say such things of him. Why, he is proud as I am, honest as his father. I do not believe this!”

Eliza Halstead was rather pleased with this outbreak. She saw in it a sure termination of the attachment which, in her belief, certainly existed. That which she had failed to do, that haughty woman would accomplish, she felt certain.

“You are severe, unkind, to doubt me so,” was her pathetic rejoinder. “I have seen them together in the street.”

“That is nothing, of course; he would speak to her or any other person, poor and dependent. A Savage is too proud for arrogance. If that is all the proof you have, permit me to say that your absurd jealousy has outrun all common sense.”

“Madam!” exclaimed Miss Eliza—and the angry red outflamed the permanent color on her cheek—“Madam, I have seen him enter the low house where she lives, not once, but half a dozen times. I have seen him walking, block after block, with her down such streets as you never entered in your life.”

“But you were there, it seems.”

“A woman’s heart will take her anywhere when she suspects the object of her love.”

“Miss Halstead—but it is useless arguing with you, utterly useless; there is no fool like an old fool!”

This very trite adage was muttered under the lady’s breath; but Miss Eliza had sharp ears, and caught the word fool.

“What did you say, madam?” she demanded, sharply.

“Oh, nothing! only that I was an old fool, to believe any thing alleged against my son.”

“Believe what you like, think what you like,” answered the spinster, who was not so easily deceived; “I have done my duty—a painful, sad duty. All that I ask of you, his mother, is silence—secrecy; profound secrecy as to my part in the affair. Owing all loyalty to him, I have come here to betray him to his own mother. It breaks my heart; do not, I pray you, madam, add one pang to those which rend it now. Remember the relations which may one day unite us, and be faithful to the trust I have reposed in you.”

Mrs. Savage was by this time pacing up and down her sumptuous sitting-room, trampling upon the flowers in its map-like carpet as a tigress treads upon the grass of its jungle. She was dreadfully annoyed; all the pride and unbounded affection which she had lavished on her son, rose in revolt against the tidings Miss Eliza had brought her. Now that her suspicions were aroused, she remembered many little circumstances calculated to confirm Miss Eliza’s statement. As this belief grew strong upon her, the color left her face, and she sat down in her chair, stern and cold, doubting, unbelieving.

“You are sure of this thing?” she said, speaking in a slow, still voice. “This is no phantasy of a jealous imagination?”

Miss Eliza drew close to the woman whom she had come deliberately to wound, and took her hand. She dearly loved to create a sensation of any kind, and took the pallor and distress in that proud face as a personal compliment.

“Do not distress yourself, sweet friend, my almost mother; but have faith, as I do, in the immutable truth of love. He may wander away from me; he may have one of those fleeting fancies for another which sometimes disturb the most faithful heart, but in the end he will return; he will be mine—all mine!”

A smile quivered around Mrs. Savage’s mouth, spite of her distress; but it passed away, leaving a stern expression there. The evil was too serious not to sweep away all sense of ridicule in her mind.

“Now tell me quietly, and in as few words as possible, exactly what you have seen or know about this affair. Excuse me if I have seemed rude; but you took me by surprise. Now let me know the whole.”

“I have told you all, sweet friend—that is, all as regards your son; but as for that artful young person, Burns, really, as a young girl, hedged in from such knowledge by all sorts of refinement, I cannot tell you, without burning blushes, how unworthy she is.”

Mrs. Savage half started from her chair.

“You surprise, you astonish me,” she said. “If ever innocence was depicted in a face, I thought it was in hers.”

“She is artful enough to deceive you. She has deceived your son. Even Georgiana will believe nothing against her.”

“If she is what you say, there is little danger for Horace; there is too much refinement and discrimination in his character for a deception of that kind to last long with him,” said the mother.

Miss Eliza instantly took the alarm. She saw that Mrs. Savage had too much faith in her son’s principles for any fear of a person who could shock them, and with crafty adroitness sought to undo the impression she had made.

“Perhaps I have gone too far,” she said, retreating gracefully. “My own love of truth is so profound, that the least deviation seems to me like a crime. She professes to be every thing that is meek and good, yet I cannot believe in it. Without some falsehood, some deception, she could not have won such influence over a heart that is, in reality, all mine, as those who saw him kneeling at my feet that night must have felt.”

“Let that pass,” broke in Mrs. Savage, with a gesture of impatience. “You really know nothing against this girl, except that she is beautiful and lovely?”

“I never said she was beautiful,” cried Miss Eliza. “Never!”

“But I know that she is, and, to all appearance, a modest, well-bred girl. Seeing all this, I was an idiot to introduce her as I did.”

“I thought so all the time,” said Miss Eliza, demurely. “Not that I think of her as beautiful or well-bred—far from it; but those artful young creatures do fascinate men some way quite unaccountably. I cannot bear to think of it.”

“You are sure that he visits her house?”

“Sure as I am of my own life.”

“And that he walks with her in the street?”

“I have seen him join her not a block from your own door, and never leave her till she reached that which leads to her rooms in the garret of a tenement-house where she now resides.”

“Where is this house?”

Miss Eliza reluctantly gave the street and number where Anna Burns lived.

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Savage; “you have done me a great service. I will think what steps had best be taken in the matter.”

“And you will keep my visit a secret? Situated as we are, he might think it indelicate for me to interfere.”

“I will not mention your name in the matter,” answered Mrs. Savage, wearily.

Miss Eliza arose, shook out the drapery of her dress, kissed Mrs. Savage with elaborate affection, and left the room, well satisfied with the work she had done.

Mrs. Savage was a proud, impetuous woman, well calculated for a leader in social life, and in all respects the mistress of her own house. Such women are usually ardent in their attachments; willing to die for those they love; ready to turn the world over in their behalf; but well disposed to regulate and control the happiness they are so earnest in securing.

There was no being in the world to whom young Savage was so much attached as his mother. There was something chivalric in his admiration of her talent, and in the loving pride that he felt in her womanliness. He saw her by the graceful force of a superior will governing other women, and charming strong men into her service. He knew that she was grand in her magnanimity when it was once aroused; but sometimes more disposed to be generous than just, when the tide of her strong prejudices set in against the truth. She was, indeed, a woman of whom any son might well have been proud—full of faults, and rich in magnificent virtues. For the world he would not have given this woman pain; for he, above all others, knew what a cruel thing pain was to her. For this reason he had, perhaps, unconsciously kept his knowledge of Anna Burns a secret from her until quite assured that this feeling, which seemed so like love, was an enduring passion; he would not disturb his mother by confessing it. There was nothing like domestic treason in this. The young man was not quite sure of himself. Refined, fastidious, and over-educated as he was, the feelings which sprang up in his heart regarding this girl were a wonder to his own mind. They were so opposed to all his relations in life that he could not believe in them; yet they were there strong as his life.

About the time that he learned of Ward’s residence in the same house with Anna Burns, he had resolved to open his heart to his mother, and tell her all. Savage had at this time resolved to make Anna Burns his wife. The first step he took in that direction was to seek Georgiana Halstead, and ask her aid in removing the object of his love to a less revolting home, and in surrounding her with associates kindred to her character rather than her position. This done, he fully intended to make that proud mother his next confidant.

A single hour had swept all these honorable projects from his mind. He had listened with scornful incredulity to the charges made against the lady of his love by Miss Eliza. But his own eyes were not to be disbelieved; the evidence of that roughly honest landlady had been complete. He had been about to sacrifice himself to an artful, unprincipled girl, who could share love, true and generous as his, with a creature like that Ward. He had seen them together; he had seen her hand in his. He knew that they dwelt under the same squalid roof. It was enough. Never, in this world, would he mention that girl’s name to his mother. She had wronged him too cruelly.

Savage, stung to the soul with these feelings, sent a note to his mother that he was going into the country for a few days—and went away, in what direction he neither knew nor cared. He had been humiliated, wounded in his love and in his pride beyond bearing; so much as he had been willing to give up for the sake of that girl’s love—and she knew it. The infatuation must have been coarse and deep which could have led her from the prospects his love would have secured, to the evil fortunes of that gambler.

Mrs. Savage received her son’s note just after Eliza Halstead left the house. She was glad to know that he had left town. In her present state of feeling she could not have met him with the equanimity which her pride demanded. While he was gone, she would see this girl, and sweep away the temptation that had beset him, if eloquence or money could do it.

It was honorable to the mother, and most honorable to the son, that Mrs. Savage never once imputed a dishonorable thought to the visits that had been described to her—proud, generous women like her are not apt to think the worst of human nature. She would have felt as much degraded by an immoral or dishonorable act in her son, as if it had fastened upon her own person.

“If I do not prevent it, he will marry this girl,” she said; “and I, fool that I was, have cast her in his way. There is poor Georgiana wronged and deserted. Not that he ever said much to her; but I had so set my heart on it, that every word I said to the dear child was a promise. Heaven bless that vicious old maid for warning me in time! What a character she is—how silkily she kept down the venom of her tongue. I wonder Halstead can endure her in the house.”

Thus Mrs. Savage wandered in her thoughts as she closed her son’s note. She had received a hard blow, but women like her do not spend much time in recrimination when work is to be done.

“I will go at once,” she thought. “This may be nothing serious, after all; Horace is so generous, and he knew of their poverty. This may only be one of his private charities, which the old maid has tortured into a love romance.”

Mrs. Savage followed out these thoughts by ringing for her maid, and ordering her shawl and bonnet to be brought down; but the girl had hardly left the room when a servant came from the hall, and inquired if Mrs. Savage could spare a minute to the young person who came so often about the fine sewing?

“Let her come up—let her come up,” answered the lady, in eager haste. “Mary, you need not get the things; I shall not go out just now.”

Anna Burns came into the room softly as a tear falls. She was pale, and a sad sweetness made her face touchingly lovely.

“I have brought the work home,” she said, laying a roll of embroidered muslin on the table, and leaning against the marble for support. “And—and I have come to say that grandmother does not think it best that I should take any more.”

Anna’s voice shook, and the woman who listened knew that it trembled through suppressed tears.

“Why do you give up work?” she inquired, with unconscious sympathy in her voice.

“I—I——Because grandmother thinks it best. Carrying home the work takes me a good deal into the street, and she does not think that good for me.”

“Your grandmother is a prudent woman. But how are you to live without work?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps I can find something to do that wont take me away from home just at present, at least.”

Mrs. Savage took up the roll of work and began to examine it. Woman of the world as she was, something gentle and good about that girl prevented her speaking out as she had proposed do. The sad, wistful look turned upon her bespoke too much sorrow for ungentle handling.

“Sit down,” she said, gently, as if she had been addressing a naughty child, “I wish to speak with you.”

Anna sat down with a frightened look, and trembling a little as the lady could see.

“You know my son, Anna Burns?”

“Yes; yes, madam, a little—that is, I did.”

“He has been to your house?”

“To our rooms you mean, lady? Yes, he has been there.”

“More than once?”

“Oh, yes! more than once. We—we did not think there was any harm in it.”

Anna’s eyes were filling with tears; her lips quivered like those of a grieved child just before it bursts into a cry.

“Did he help you——”

“Madam!”

“Did he give you money? Was it for that he came?”

“Money? Oh! he would not do that. Grandmother is a lady; and no one ever offers her money, most of all, Mr. Savage.”

There was no deception here. Those eyes were lifted to the proud woman’s questioning, clearly and purely as the stars of heaven shine on earth. Mrs. Savage hesitated and looked down, there was too much of the woman in her heart not to shrink from the task she had imposed on herself.

At last she took the girl’s hand in her own, and felt that it trembled there like a frightened bird.

“Anna Burns, has my son ever said that he loved you?”

Anna struggled to free her hand.

“Oh, madam! Oh, lady! this is punishing me too much!”

“Answer me, Anna, I mean nothing unkind; but I must know. Has my son ever said that he loved you?”

Anna sat upright. Her face had been scarlet a moment before; now it was white as snow.

“Yes,” she said, with gentle firmness. “He has said that he loved me more than once.”

“And you believed him?”

“Believed him? Oh, yes!”

“One question more, Anna. Do you love him?”

“Lady, I am a very young girl, and hardly know what love is. But I hope God will forgive me if it is wrong to think so often and so much of Mr. Savage!”

“This is very sad,” murmured the lady; and she held the little hand in hers closer when she spoke again.

“Has he ever said any thing about marrying you, Anna?”

“I think so. It seemed to me that it was what he meant; but that was before—”

“Before what, Anna?”

“I don’t know. I would rather not talk any more about it, madam, if you please.”

“Anna, let me talk seriously with you. There is a great distinction between you and my son.”

“I know it—I know it. Grandmother said exactly those words.”

“He cannot marry you.”

“Oh! madam.”

“You must save him from the ruin such a step would bring upon him.”

“Ruin?”

“Yes, ruin! I, his mother, never would consent. He would lose his high place in society. He would regret the step within a month after it was taken.”

Anna grew paler and paler, the quivering of her lips became convulsive.

“That is the reason—that is why he would not speak to me. Oh! madam, my heart is breaking.”

“Better the pain now than when it is too late, child. Give him up—give him up, and I will see that neither you nor yours shall ever want.”

“It is too late—too late, lady. He has given me up. I understand it all now. Let me go home. I am faint—so, so fain——”

The sentence died out in a murmur on those white lips. Anna had fainted at the proud woman’s feet.

CHAPTER XVII.
A NEW LIGHT.

When Anna Burns awoke from that deathly fainting fit, Mrs. Savage was leaning over her, with pain and sorrow in her fine features. The unhappy girl looked so white and broken in her insensibility that it touched her to the heart.

“Poor child! it is a sad pity,” she murmured, lifting Anna’s head to her lap. “But these things, happily, do not prove fatal. She should not have lifted her eyes to my Horace. Dear fellow! no wonder he thinks her pretty.”

“Let me go home, lady! Let me go home!” said Anna, drearily. “I will do any thing you say, only let me go home!”

“Wait a little, my child; take a glass of wine, it will make you strong. I want to say a few words now.”

“I will wait,” said Anna; “but no wine; grandmother will make me some tea when I get home.”

“I—I wished to say a word more about my son.”

“Well, madam, I will try and listen.”

“I have said that it would be his total ruin if——”

“If he married me. Yes; I know—I know; please do not say it over again, it kills me.”

“I think, Anna Burns, you love him well enough to save him.”

“I—I love him well enough for—for almost any thing.”

“There is but one thing you can do for him.”

Anna lifted her large, questioning eyes to meet those of Mrs. Savage—and that look made speech unnecessary.

“Your eyes ask me what it is you can do.”

“Yes.” The words fell faintly from those white lips, as they began to quiver again.

“Keep out of his way. Leave the place you live in—I will supply the means. Move to some other city. Go into the country; do any thing but see him again.”

Again Anna lifted those eyes to the proud woman’s face; and this time the fine, blue eyes of the lady fell under her glance.

“Is there no other way?”

“None in the world. Listen, child. You are pretty, I admit—lady-like, refined, surpassingly so; but my son has a position to maintain, a career of ambition before him. We have no other child, and have founded high hopes on him. This marriage, if he, indeed, thinks of it, would destroy them all. His father never would be brought to sanction it; he never would recognize you. As for me, I should forgive him, perhaps, but you, never!”

“It will not happen, lady. I shall never need your forgiveness. You did not know that Mr. Savage had thought better of it already—that he does not speak to me in the street. That——”

Anna stopped, for a quick rush of tears was choking her.

“Indeed! Is this true?”

“Indeed, indeed it is, lady!”

“And what is the reason?”

“Perhaps he is obeying your command, lady?”

“No, I have never spoken of this—never heard of it till this morning.”

“Then he must have been angry with me about——”

“Well, about what?”

“About Mr. Ward.”

“Mr. Ward—what of him? Is it the Ward I know—the great friend of young Gould?”

“I—I think so. He has been cruel to me; he would come to live in the house.”

“Live in the same house with you?”

“Yes, he would do it. We did not know about it at the time. Then he contrived to meet me on the stairs, and follow me into the street. Mr. Savage saw him there one day. It was then he did not speak to me. But I was not to blame. Oh, lady! pity me a little; for since then, I have been so miserable.”

“It will not last. I give you my experience that it will not last. I will inquire about young Ward. He has no family or connections to speak of. There could be no objections to that match, if he really fancies you, I should suppose. Come, come, cheer up; the other is out of the question, you know; but if young Ward comes forward, I should not in the least mind giving you a wedding outfit, and a neat little sum of money. Take these things into consideration, like a good girl. This fancy for my son will soon exhaust itself.”

Anna stood up firmly now, and drew the shawl, that had partly fallen off, about her person with a proud grace that astonished the woman who had wounded her so.

“Lady, be content; I will not, if possible, see your son again; but to speak of another, especially that man, is worse than cruel, it is insulting.”

The red flush of a haughty spirit, ashamed of itself, swept over the lady’s face.

“I did not mean to wound or insult you,” she said.

“No, lady; you only forgot that a poor girl who works hard for her living may have a little pride, and some shadow of delicacy.”

“Indeed, I do not forget any thing of the kind; but I am anxious to save my son from a step that I honestly believe he would repent of, and have frankly asked you to help me. Another woman would have taken different and harsher means; I stoop to entreat, implore you to give him up.”

“Lady, I have—I do.”

“This fact about young Ward will, if you manage it wisely, be a great assistance. My son is proud and peculiarly sensitive. If he supposed that you encouraged this young man, it would go far to cure him of his folly.”

“What do you mean, lady?”

“This. He now thinks, doubtless, that you have encouraged young Ward to come under the same roof with you. He has already seen him with you in the street. Do not undeceive him—that will be his cure.”

“But what will he, what can he think of me?”

“No matter what he thinks. You will never meet again; and if you should, all this foolish passion will have been swept away on both sides. Then you can inform him with safety.”

“Lady, do not ask me to act in this way. I can give up his love, but not his respect.”

“Not for a time? If it will restore him to himself—to the parents who love him better than themselves?”

“I could not force myself to do that, madam.”

“But he may return to you.”

Anna’s eyes sparkled through the tears that hung on those curling lashes. Mrs. Savage saw the look, and her own eyes flashed angrily.

“You wish it. I see you wish it,” she said.

“If I do, it is because even a new pain would be something like a relief to the dull ache here,” answered the young girl, laying a hand on her heart. “You have my promise, lady, not to see your son again, if I can help it. After that, any conditions you may make are of little importance. You are right; it does not matter what he thinks of me. Do with me as you will, I cannot be more wretched than I am.”

Anna sat down in a chair, simply because she was too weak for the upright position she had bravely maintained till then; but her face was turned upon the proud woman with a look that seemed to be making a last plead for her life.

“I wish it could be avoided. Do believe me, I am giving myself almost as much pain as you can feel; but firmness here is mercy. Promise not to see my son again.”

“I have—I have!”

These words were uttered in a cry of absolute anguish, that drove the blood from Mrs. Savage’s face; but she was firm as a rock, notwithstanding this strain on her sympathy.

“Promise, if you should be forced to see him, that no explanations shall be made. Let him keep his present impression, injurious as it may be, regarding young Ward.”

Poor Anna Burns! These were hard conditions, harder than she knew of; for, brought up by that pure and gentle old woman, more carefully than most city belles ever were, she had no idea that any one could think worse of her than that she had encouraged the honorable attentions of this man Ward. But that thought alone was enough to make her young heart swell with bitter humiliation.

“Lady, he cannot believe it. He never will believe that I could turn from him to that dreadful man,” she cried, in a passion of resentment. “There is not a girl on earth who could be so insane.”

“But it seems he does believe it,” answered the lady.

Anna’s uplifted hand fell heavily into her lap.

“True! true!” she repeated, in a heart-broken voice. “He saw us together; he would not speak to me.”

She got up wearily now, and besought Mrs. Savage to let her depart.

“I have promised every thing,” she said. “There is nothing more that you can want of me.”

“But I, too, have promised something.”

“What?”

“Help, protection, money, if you need it.”

Anna turned upon her like a hunted doe, her cheeks red with passionate pride, her eyes on fire.

“Madam, I give you back your son, I do not sell him.”

“Then you reject kindness. You will accept nothing?” faltered Mrs. Savage.

Anna did not answer, but walked quietly out of the room, with her hand clenched under the scant shawl, and her lips pressed firmly together. For the first time in her life she was really in a passion.

Mrs. Savage, shocked by the surprise of this outbreak, stood speechless till the girl had disappeared. When she did find words, they came in a burst of admiration.

“Upon my word, she is a splendid young creature! I do not wonder that Horace is infatuated with her. She absolutely makes me ashamed of myself. If it were not for Georgiana——No, no! it never can be.”

As Anna was going home, stepping proudly, from the pure force of such resentment, as few women could feel and retain their dignity, she met little Joseph, with a bundle of papers under his arm.

“Please, will you buy a paper, Miss? Ledger! Telegraph! Bulletin!” he said, with a rogueish little laugh. “Only five cents!”

Anna recognized this gentle pleasantry, and turning upon him, tried to smile, but instead of the smile came a burst of tears that seemed to freeze little Joseph in his tracks.

“Why, Anna, what is the matter?” he said, laying his papers on the side-walk, and clinging to her hand, which was grasping the shawl hard in her anguish. “Why, how it trembles! Poor little hand! Poor, darling sister! what is it that makes you cry so? Stoop down, Anna, and let me kiss you. Nobody is in sight. There! There! Doesn’t that make you feel better?”

“Yes, darling, yes!” faltered Anna, striving to hide the ache at her heart with a smile that was so mournful that it almost made the gentle boy cry too.

“There is a man coming round the corner, or I’d give you plenty of ’em! Indeed, I would!” he said, feeling in his pocket and drawing forth some crumpled money. “I’ve had pretty good luck to-day, Anna; only see! Suppose we go out on a bender, and get a plate of icecream between us?”

Anna shook her head, and drew the veil over her face.

“What is that for? Don’t you see it is Mr. Savage.”

Anna snatched her shawl from the boy’s grasp, and hurrying past him, turned the next corner.

Horace Savage quickened his step as he saw the boy, who had gathered up his papers, and stood looking after his sister, surprised by her strange conduct.

“Ah, ha! my little friend, is it you?” said Savage, speaking with great kindness. “How is trade to-day? Hand me out two or three papers, that’s a fine fellow.”

Joseph forgot his usual alacrity, but stood looking toward the corner where his sister had disappeared in sad bewilderment.

“What did she run away for?” he said at last, appealing to the young man. “Is she afraid of you?”

“Of whom are you speaking, Joseph?”

“Of sister Anna, to-be-sure.”

“I saw a lady going round the corner, but did not observe her much—was that your sister?”

“Yes it was. Some one has been making her cry. Who is it, I wonder?”

“How should I know?” answered the young man, smiling a little at the boy’s earnestness. “Was she really crying?”

“Not at first; she was walking along as proud as a queen, with her head up, and her cheeks as red as two peaches; but when I spoke to her and asked her to buy some papers—all in fun, you know—she burst right out a crying. I declare, sir, it was enough to break one’s heart. If I hadn’t been a fellow in business, with property to take care of, I should have burst out crying with her. I don’t know what has come over sister Anna, to go on as she does.”

“Why, how does she go on?” inquired Horace, prompted to the question by the love which would not be crowded out of his heart. “She ought to be very happy, I should think.”

“But she isn’t, sir. She doesn’t eat as much as a chipper-bird; and as for sleep, grandma says she don’t close her eyes sometimes all night.”

“Indeed! What can trouble her so, Joseph?”

“I’ll tell you what I think it is,” answered Joseph, lifting his innocent young face toward that of the young man, “I believe it’s that Mr. Ward’s being in the house. He torments sister Anna, and she——Well, I really do believe she can’t bear him.”

“Can’t bear him, Joseph?” cried Savage, with a sudden glow of the whole countenance.

“Yes, it’s almost that, wicked as it is. I’m sure of it. Just as likely as not he has been following her out again, and trying to make her walk with him. That always makes her come back with red cheeks, and such angry eyes, that one doesn’t hardly know her.”

“Are you sure that she does not like him, Joseph?”

“Like? Why, she hates him. Only sister Anna can’t hate much, you know—it isn’t in her.”

“But why does Mr. Ward follow your sister into the street, when he could so easily visit her at home?”

“No he can’t, though. Anna goes into the bedroom if he only knocks. As for grandma, why she sits up so straight, and looks at him so steady, that he makes believe to ask for something, and goes away mad enough.”

“Then he is never welcomed in your room?”

“Welcomed! I should rather think not. Why, Mr. Savage, he isn’t the least bit of a gentleman. When grandma went down to his room and told him how inconvenient and unpleasant it was to have him there, and Anna so young, he almost laughed at her. Grandma’s eyes were as bright as stars, I can tell you, when she came up stairs again. She’s a real lady, is grandma, and it isn’t often that any one dares to treat her so.”

“Did your grandmother really ask Mr. Ward to go away?”

“Yes, she did, right to his face.”

“Joseph, I have been keeping you a long time, breaking up business, and that isn’t fair. There is money enough for your whole stock. I can’t carry it away, you see; but sell the papers out at half price and go home.”

Joseph took the offered money, and insisted on forcing some copies of his stock on Savage, who took them in order to give a business air to the transaction.

“Don’t say any thing to your sister about what we’ve been talking of, Joseph,” he said, a little anxiously. “It might annoy her, you know, if she thought I knew she had been crying in the street.”

“No,” said Joseph, confidentially. “I wouldn’t say any thing to make her feel bad for the world.”

“But you are quite certain of all you’ve told me, little Joseph?”

“Certain? Of course I am. But, Mr. Savage, if you’d just as lief call me Joseph without the little, I’d rather. When a boy gets into business for himself, it’s apt to hurt him in the way of trade to be called ‘little,’ our Robert says. It isn’t me, remember—I don’t mind; but our Robert is a capital business man, and he’s very particular about it ‘in a commercial point of view’—these are his very words.”

“Well, Joseph, I’ll be careful.”

“Thank you, sir; I hope you’ll be coming to see us soon. Grandma is always glad to see you.”

“And no one else, Joseph?”

“Of course, we’re all glad,” answered the boy, instinctively keeping his sister in the background; “Robert and I, particularly.”

I am not quite certain that Horace Savage felt so grateful for this delicate reserve as he ought to have been; but one thing is certain, he did not go out of town that night, and was in better spirits, during the day than had been usual to him for a week past. His mother was greatly surprised to see him come home that afternoon as usual; but received his excuses for what seemed a capricious change of mind with great good humor.

“Fortunately,” she said to herself, “I saw the girl before he relented. She will keep her word, poor thing, though he may make it hard for her.”

It was wonderful what confidence this woman of the world placed in the young creature whose life she was breaking up. Like a wise diplomat, she let her son take his own way unquestioned.

CHAPTER XVIII.
A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.

“Grandmother!”

“Well, my dear.”

Anna did not answer at first, but sat for a time lost in thought. At last she spoke again, but in a voice so constrained that the old lady looked at her with sudden anxiety.

“Grandmother, how long would it take us to move?”

“Not long,” answered the old lady; “we have not much to pack up. Two or three hours would get us ready for the cart, if we all worked.”

“Could we go to-night, grandmother?”

“We could, certainly—but where?”

“I have found a place. When Miss Halstead was here the other day, she told me of a little house which belonged to her grandmother, who did not care to rent it just then, and wanted a nice, quiet family to take charge of it. She had mentioned us to the old lady, and we are just the kind of people she wants.”

“Have you seen the house, Anna?”

“No, grandmother; but Miss Halstead says it is very comfortable and pretty.”

“And the rent?”

“I told you, if you remember, that we were to take charge of the house. It is furnished, and they must have some one. There is no question of rent about it.”

“That is rather strange. Are you sure, Anna, that Miss Halstead is not making this a charity in disguise?”

“It may be—I cannot tell; but one thing I do know, if charity could be sweet from any one, that dear young lady would make it so. She is good and lovely as an angel!”

“She is, indeed.”

“And you will accept this offer, grandmother?”

“It seems too good to be true, Anna. But if we can take a more comfortable house on such terms, it would be wrong to refuse it. For many reasons, dear, I should be glad to get you out of this place.”

“And I shall be so glad to move. It seems as if I could not breathe here. Put on your shawl, grandmother, and let us go look at the house. It is not so very far away.”

“How impatient you are, Anna. We will look at the house, and I will get ready; but as for moving, we must give the landlady notice—she has been very kind to us.”

“So she has, grandmother, I had forgotten her. Indeed, it seems to me as if I forget every thing but myself. Of course, the boys must be consulted.”

“They must, at least, be informed.”

“Oh! how I wish it could be done at once; but if that is impossible, we can, at least, go and see this new house.”

The old lady put on a neat crape bonnet which Anna had made for her, and covered the darns in her dress with an old black shawl, good in its time, but worn thin as muslin in places. She looked neat, and like a perfect gentlewoman; and would have appeared so in any dress, for with her, innate refinement was independent of costume.

Anna had been sitting in her bonnet and shawl, for she had taken a long walk after her interview with Joseph, which ended in that call on Miss Halstead, during which the business of the house had been settled. Georgiana had received her with more than kindness. There was something shy and tender in her manner inexpressibly touching. It seemed as if she were accepting a favor, rather than conferring one, when a second offer of the house was made. Old Mrs. Halstead had been called in to the conference, and seemed delighted at the prospect of securing such unexceptionable inmates for her house.

“It is a little box of a place in the edge of the town, so small that I find it difficult to obtain a tenant that suits me. Besides, I may sometimes wish to live in it myself.”

“You! grandmamma?” exclaimed Georgiana.

“Yes. When my pretty grandchild here gets tired of petting me, or loves some other person enough to leave me.”

“That I never shall—never!” answered Georgie. “Now it is impossible.”

The old lady laid a hand on her young head with a queenly sort of tenderness, and said, “Hush, child, hush! I do not like to hear you talk in this way.”

“What! do you want me to leave you?” answered Georgie, rallying her sprightliness; “that is very unkind, grandmamma.”

There was something sad and a little out of the common way here, which Anna did not understand. Was it possible that this beautiful young creature, living in the very lap of wealth, could have her anxieties and feel the heartache as she did? The thought made her look on Georgie with more interest; a growing sympathy was fast springing up between these two girls, so far apart in the social strata, but so close together in that refinement of heart and mind which makes high natures kin.

“If you can go to-day,” said Georgie, “I will meet you at the house and do the honors.”

So it was arranged; and Anna went home, brightened a little by this change in her existence, to consult her grandmother, and prepare for the appointment she had made.

Mrs. Burns entered a street-car and sat down by Anna, pleased with an event that had drawn her from the eternal sameness of her garret-home. She was a mild, sweet-faced old lady, for whom even the rude jostlers of a street-car made room reverently. So she enjoyed her ride, and thanked God in her heart that Anna would soon be under a shelter where no bad, rude man would dare to force himself upon her. The advent of Mr. Ward into what had been to them always a safe and peaceful dwelling, had distressed the old lady more than her grandchildren had dreamed of. She had seen enough of the world in her lifetime to understand that to be domesticated with a young man, from any grade in society, would bring reproach of some kind on her child. The cars stopped, and after walking a single block, these two women found themselves in front of an opening or park, encircled by a double crescent of small three-story cottages, with verandahs of light wood-work running along each story, all woven and draped with climbing roses, honeysuckles, and Virginia creepers. In fact, the front of these houses was one lattice-work of flowers; and all the open ground inclosed in the two crescents was broken up with guilder-roses, lilacs, spireas, and a world of roses growing in rich masses, if not always rare, exceedingly beautiful.

A street ran between the two crescents lined with tall trees, which, here and there, tangled their branches over it. In the grounds, too, were weeping-willows, the paper-mulberry, and alanthus trees, drooping under the weight of great clusters of vividly red fruit.

The old lady uttered an exclamation, half delight, half surprise. Was it possible? Could she again gather her son’s children about her in a place like that? To Anna it seemed a little paradise. The very breath stopped on her lips as she paused to gaze upon it. “There must be some mistake,” she said. “The number was on one of those gates, truly; but it could not be.” She stood before one of the rustic gates which opened to a house in the very deepest curve of one of the crescents, bewildered and uncertain.

“Do not attempt to open it,” said the old lady, restraining her granddaughter’s hand as she was about to unlatch the gate. “It cannot be here we are to live.”

Poor old soul! She had lived so long in the close rooms of that tenement-building, that these houses, very simple and unpretending if divested of their grounds and flowers, seemed far too magnificent for her aspirations.

“Let us go on,” she said, “and search out the real house; this place is as lovely as paradise, but it is not for us. I wish you had not come this way, Anna, it will make you dissatisfied with the reality.”

“Look, grandmother, look! It is the very house. There is Miss Halstead in the door; you can scarcely see her for the honeysuckles—but I should know her face anywhere. She is coming forward, and looks so pleased. Come, grandmother.”

Through the gate they went, and along the broad path lined with flowers on either hand. A rustic chair stood in the lower verandah, close by an open French window, which led into a pretty little parlor connected by folding doors, always kept open, with one of the cosiest little rooms you ever saw. This room was just large enough to hold a small couch, an easy-chair, a stand for flowers, and some books—just what it did contain. Mrs. Burns sat down in the rustic chair, and drop after drop trembled up into her dear old eyes. Was this to be her home, even for a short season? Would her children breathe the odor of these flowers, and sleep in those neat rooms? She could not realize it. Our readers know how this sweet, old creature had bent and yielded to what was inevitable in adversity without a murmur, and without shedding a single tear: but she was childlike with gratitude now, and the tears began to steal down her withered cheek in slow drops of happiness.

“My dear,” she said, holding out her hand to Georgiana Halstead, “come here and let the old woman kiss you, she is getting to be a child again; but a happy, very happy child. Are we, indeed, to live here?”

“If you will, dear madam, my grandmother wishes it; but she makes one condition.”

“What is that? I am sure it will not be a hard one.”

“Not very, I hope. While you stay in the house, you and your family must occupy it entirely. Your own furniture can be brought in, but you will find the house tolerable without that. She wishes no reserve as to room or furniture. Take possession when you please—the sooner the better; that is all the condition my grandmother makes.”

“Your grandmother is a kind woman, and I thank her—that is all we can do. We are poor in every thing but this gratitude, which is very sweet to feel.”

“Let us see the house. It was pretty as a bird’s-nest when I was here months ago. How fortunate it is that grandmamma did not wish to let it. Come up stairs, you will find a very pretty sitting-room there, one of the most breezy, cheerful places you ever saw. Your bed-chamber, Mrs. Burns, opens into that. Anna’s will be on the third story. I have arranged it all. Come and see.”

Up stairs they went, into a room which Georgie had described well as cheerful and breezy, for the two sash-windows were open, and the whole chamber was swept with perfumed air as they entered it. Two good-sized book-cases were in this room, filled with pleasant reading. The furniture was all excellent, but unpretending. Two or three engravings hung on the walls; and one of Wheeler & Wilson’s sewing-machines stood in a rosewood case in one corner. In the balcony, which seemed like a little room—it was so festooned with vines—were some rustic chairs, and a bird-cage, in which birds were chirping.

“This is my little present,” said Georgie, promptly, remarking the old lady’s look of surprise. “Here is a rocking-chair, which grandmamma sent from her own room. No one is to sit in that but Mrs. Burns, remember. Now take a peep in here; comfortable, I think.”

She opened the bedroom door and revealed a low bed, white as snow, but simple as a bed well could be; an easy-chair, covered with white dimity, stood near it, and every thing that an old person could require for comfort or convenience was there. Something more than the common furniture of a house had certainly been added here. Georgiana accounted for this frankly enough.

“Grandmamma,” she said, “had more of these things than she knew how to use, and would send them. She does so like to make every thing complete.”

Old Mrs. Burns had not been known to smile so frequently as she did that day for years. There was an absolute glow on her face all the time she stayed in that cottage. She felt intuitively that some great kindness was intended, but it gave her no pain—generous persons can receive favors without annoyance; the very qualities which induce them to give freely enable them to receive gracefully. Here that good old lady had a double pleasure, that of occupying a pleasant home, and the intense gratitude which came out of it, which was exquisite happiness in itself.

“Tell your grandmother that her kindness has made an old woman hopeful again. For my own sake, and in behalf of my dear children, I thank her.”

They stood by the gate looking back upon the grounds when Mrs. Burns said this. Anna was a little apart, silent, and with a dreamy sadness in her eyes. She had said little while examining the house. What could a change of place do for her? Indeed, I think the old rooms under the roof of that tenement-house was dearer to her than those open balconies, and all the flowers that draped them, for there he had held her hand quietly in his. There he had “looked, though he was seldom talking of love.” She was glad for her grandmother’s sake, and pleased that the boys, who worked so hard and were so good, would be for a time, at least, made more comfortable. As for herself, poor girl, her life was broken up. But for those dear ones she would have been glad to die, had God so willed it.

Georgiana Halstead did not understand this. She knew nothing of Anna’s interview with Mrs. Savage; and deeming her possessed of a love for which she would have given so much, was both surprised and disappointed at a coldness which to her seemed want of feeling. In the exaltation of a most generous nature, she had found relief in carrying out the promise she had given Horace Savage; but she had expected more enthusiasm, more demonstrative happiness, from a girl who had darkened her own life in attaining the love which was so ready to lift her out of all that was disagreeable in her life.

Georgiana went home with Mrs. Burns. She was not the girl to make half sacrifices, and thought that, perhaps, her help or counsel might be of use. She would not be saddened by Anna’s silence, or disheartened in any way. Horace had asked her to befriend these people, and she would oblige him whether they wished it or not.

Very much to the surprise of Mrs. Burns and her visitor, Robert had reached home earlier than usual, and was sitting in the room with young Mr. Gould, who had just returned from Ward’s room, where a fiery scene had passed between him and his old friend. That morning Robert had appealed to the nephew of his employer with frank earnestness, and besought him to get the young man away from that house. He told Gould how cruelly his presence annoyed sister Anna, and added that the grandmother had appealed to him in vain.

Gould was terribly angry when he learned how meanly Ward had seized upon his reckless hint to persecute a helpless girl. Every generous impulse of his nature rose up in repudiation of an act so base. Scarcely had Robert told his story, when Gould seized his hat and stood ready, so far as lay in his power, to correct the evil his own rash folly had instigated. His transient fancy for Robert’s sister had vanished long ago, and he felt responsible for an act which might injure her, and certainly debased the man he had once considered as his friend.

I have said there was a stormy scene in Ward’s room within ten minutes after Gould entered the house. We do not care to give the particulars, as it was enacted at the very time Mrs. Burns was going over her new house—a much pleasanter subject. But the result was, that an hour after young Ward gave up his key to the landlady, and hurried out of the house with a portmanteau in his hand, looking greatly flurried, and as mean as an exquisite dandy could well look.

Gould went up stairs with Robert, resolved to set the old lady and her charge at rest for the future; and, if it could be done, offer them such help as might atone for the trouble he had unwittingly occasioned them. He had been angry, or at least excited with generous indignation; and his very handsome face was lighted up into something more striking than mere color or form. He really was splendid while moving up and down that little room, his face bright with noble feeling, and his step lithe as the movements of a panther.

Gould stood in the middle of the room when the young girls came in. I think at that particular moment it would have been hard to find a more noble-looking fellow. Anna started and turned crimson. She recognized him at once as the Bois Guilbert of that Waverly tableau that had terminated so disastrously. Georgie, too, remembered him, and blushed in company with her friend.

“My dear madam,” said the young man, addressing Mrs. Burns, “I beg ten thousand pardons for this intrusion; and as many more that any person I have ever known should have been its cause. My friend Robert here—a boy to be proud of, madam—informed me of the distress Ward had thrown you into, and I came up at once to turn him out. He is gone; I saw him into the street myself. You need have no further uneasiness on his account.”

“You are very good, very kind,” answered the old lady, thanking him with her eyes all the time she was speaking. “It would have been a great service, and is; but we are going to move.”

“What! has the scoundrel really driven you out?”

“No, not altogether that. We have found friends,” said Mrs. Burns, looking significantly at Georgiana.

“I am heartily glad of that. Miss Halstead, I have already had the pleasure of an introduction. I could hardly have found it in my heart to forgive any one else for preceding me. But my uncle and I will settle our share with my young friend Robert.”

“Robert,” whispered Mrs. Burns, who seemed to be trembling all over, “who is this young gentleman?”

“Hush, grandmother! it is only young Mr. Gould.”

The old woman dropped into a chair, and, clasping her hands together, forced herself to sit still.

“I will go now,” said Georgie, seeing that nothing could be done. “To-morrow I will come again, and we will arrange things. Robert, are you very tired? It is getting a little dark, I think.”

Robert got up and took his hat from the table; but young Gould took it gently from his hand and laid it back again. “I am going by Miss Halstead’s residence. Will she permit me to escort her?”

Georgie smiled, twisted the elastic around her lace parasol, as if it was of no further use, and prepared to go. That splendid young fellow, with eyes so soft, and yet so bright, was no mean escort for any girl—and Georgiana was quite conscious of the fact. Indeed, of the two, she could not but confess he was taller and finer-looking than Savage. That was why he had been selected to represent the magnificent Templar.

So Georgie went home, accompanied by Mr. Gould, with her pretty gloved hand resting on his arm lightly as a bird touches the branch it nests on, yet sending the pleasantest sort of a sensation through that arm, and into the impetuous heart close by. If Georgie was conscious of the mischief she was doing, the pretty rogue gave no sign, unless a little heavier weight upon the arm might have been deemed such; but upon the steps of her father’s mansion she paused, after ascending just far enough to bring her face on a level with his, and such a warm, rosy smile met him that he longed to kiss her then and there, as an excuse for going into that house and demanding her on the instant of her father. Gould had seen that provokingly handsome creature many a time without any such feelings, and asked himself, with supreme contempt, what he had been about never to fall in love with her before.

“May you call?” said Georgie, putting the tip of her parasol up to her mouth, and turning her head on one side, as if she were brooding over the subject, “Yes, certainly, if you have any business with papa—I think he does that sort of thing with your house sometimes; or if you have taken a fancy to know grandmamma. She’s an old lady worth knowing, I can tell you.”

“If you permit me, I certainly shall have business with your father,” answered Gould, with a bright smile; “and am so anxious to see this fine old lady, that to-morrow, at the furthest, I shall claim that privilege.”

“I dare say she will be glad to see you. If she should be indisposed, there is Aunt Eliza—you have seen Aunt Eliza?”

“Oh, yes, certainly! I have seen her, and shall be delighted to resume the acquaintance.”

“Well, that being settled, good-night!”

Gould lifted his hat, and went away. Georgie ran up the steps, smiling like a June morning. The door was opened, and she glided through singing in a low, happy voice, “Spring is coming! Spring is coming!” when a voice called to her from over the banisters. Miss Eliza spent half her natural life leaning over those banisters—and she was there, as usual, keeping guard.

“Who was it? Who was it you were talking to, Georgiana?” she called out. “I heard a man’s voice. I will take my oath I heard a man’s voice.”

“It was Mr. Gould,” answered Georgie, breaking off her song.

“Mr. Gould? What, the young gentleman who was on his knees to that vile girl in the tableau? You don’t mean to say it was him?”

“Yes, I do, Aunt Eliza.”

“Where did you meet him, Georgie, dear? Tell me all about it, that’s a sweet angel!”

“I met him at Mrs. Burns’, Aunt Eliza.”

“What! in that garret? Is he bewitched by that creature, too? I can’t believe it!”

“I don’t know about his being bewitched, but he certainly was in Mrs. Burns’ room when we got there.”

“We! Georgiana. Who are you talking about?”

“Old Mrs. Burns, Anna, and myself. We had been up town on a little business, and——”

“Georgiana Halstead, have you been in the street with those low people?”

“Yes, if you will call them so.”

“Without my permission?”

“I had that of grandmamma.”

“My mother is an old—— My mother does not know what she is about. I must inform her.”

“She is well informed, Aunt Eliza.”

“I will make sure of that. But Mr. Gould—did he inquire for me?”

“He spoke of you, certainly.”

“What did he say? Come up here this minute, and tell me all about it.”

“He said that he had been introduced to you, and should like to renew the acquaintance.”

“Yes, yes! I dare say he would! I saw clearly that he was watching my Horace that night like a lynx, so jealous that he could not conceal it, because he escorted me to the carriage. So he has manifested himself at last. Too late! Too late!”

“He spoke of calling to-morrow, Aunt Eliza.”

“Indeed! That is serious. I will receive him courteously, of course, and with tender dignity. If there is any time when a lady should be considerate, it is when she is compelled to suppress the love she has inspired. Do not look at me, niece; I shall find myself equal to the occasion, depend on that. But, after visiting that creature, he cannot expect the reception I might otherwise have given him.”

“Where is grandmamma, Aunt Eliza?”

“In her room. Go to her, child, and confess every thing. She is kind, she is benevolent. Have no fear to approach her; she may not possess my bland manner—but that is the fault of early education. She is a trustworthy person, and deserves to be treated well.”

“Afraid to approach my darling old grandmamma, who knows so much more than all of us put together, and is worth a thousand people, if we count the heart for any thing. Dear me! what a precious old goose Aunt Eliza is. Ha! she is leaning over the banister again. I hope she didn’t hear me.”

“Georgiana!”

“Well, Aunt Eliza.”

“At what hour did Mr. Gould speak of calling?”

“He did not appoint any special time.”

“Well, it does not matter, one can dress early, and the pleasures of anticipation are so exquisitely sweet, that I shall quite revel in them,” muttered Miss Eliza to herself. “I only wanted this to bring that proud man to his knees. Let him fear to lose me once, and we shall have an interesting crisis; depend on that, Eliza Halstead.”

Once more the banisters were left to their own support, and Miss Eliza retired into the place she called her boudoir, while Georgie went to her grandmother, and told her all that had passed. When Georgie spoke of Mr. Gould, the old lady seemed unusually disturbed, and asked a good many questions with singular interest, but said nothing against his coming, and smiled a little, as nice old ladies will when they watch the workings of a young girl’s heart in her innocent speech. From that night Mrs. Halstead was less anxious about the heavy eyes and pale cheeks of her pet. In fact, it was not long before her cheeks wore the flush of wild roses, and her eyes—— Well, it is of no use describing Georgie’s eyes when she was happy—they were too lovely for comparison.

It had been a chilly day, which made fires pleasant, when Savage had that interview in the old maid’s room; but the weather was deliciously pleasant now, and Miss Eliza came out in white muslin and blue ribbons, radiant with expectation from breakfast time till noon, and from noon till evening. Then Mr. Gould came, and, according to her own private instructions, was taken up to her room, where the Cupid was quivering over a basket of real flowers, and Miss Eliza sat in position, with her foot on the ottoman, and some innocent white flowers in her hair.

Gould was not quite so much pre-occupied as Savage had been, so he fell into the lady’s humor, complimented her till she fluttered like a bird of paradise on its nest, and began to think seriously of spurning young Savage from the feet to which he was expected to fall. After awhile Gould adroitly brought the conversation round to the lady’s mother, and expressed an ardent wish to know intimately any person connected with a person he had admired so long. This desire was so promising that Eliza took Gould into the family sitting-room, where Mrs. Halstead sat with her beautiful grandchild.

In this fashion Gould introduced himself into the family, where he soon became intimate as a son.

It was after this bold step that the roses came back to Georgie’s face; and the young creature began to sing again, like a bird that some great storm has silenced for a time. The old lady smiled on all this, but at times she would fix her eyes, with strange anxiety, on the young man’s face, as if her thoughts were afar off, and troubled with bitter memories.

As for Miss Eliza, it was very difficult to sweep an illusion from her brain. Intense vanity like hers is not easily warned.

CHAPTER XIX.
A DECLARATION OF LOVE.

The night that Gould went home with Miss Halstead, Savage presented himself in the tenement-house, resolved to come to an explanation with Anna, and be guided by the result. The boys had gone out on some errand, and old Mrs. Burns had just stepped down stairs to give their landlady notice of the removal; so, for once, Anna was alone. She heard the step on the stairs, and started up like a frightened fawn ready for flight. But there was no place to flee to, except the little bedroom, and that was so close to the room that he might hear her breathe—for she was even then panting with affright. What could she say to him? Had he really thought that Ward was staying there with her consent? He had reached the last flight of steps, when she remembered, with a pang, her promise to Mrs. Savage, “never, if she could help it, to see him again.”

Stung by this thought, she sprang for the bedroom; but the doors of that house did not move with patent springs; this one dragged against the floor, and, before she could close it, Savage was in the ante-room. Was she glad or sorry that the possibility of avoiding him had escaped her? The tumult in her heart would have forbidden an answer to this question had her conscience been able to force it upon her.

He was in the room, his eyes caught hers as her hand dropped from the door, and she stood on the threshold, gazing wildly at him like an antelope frightened in its lair.

“Anna,” he said, yielding to a sudden rush of tenderness which swelled in his heart at the very sight of her; “Anna, was it from me you were striving to escape?”

She stood where he had first seen her, with drooping eyes and a cheek of ashes.

“Anna, speak to me.”

She looked up with such agony on her face, that the very sight of it made him recoil a step backward.

“Anna, my poor, dear girl, what is this that has come between us?”

“I don’t know. Ask—ask——No, you must not ask any one. You and I must never speak to each other again—never! never! never!”

The voice broke off in a faint wail, so full of pain, that it made the young man shiver.

“But we can and will speak together. Who shall prevent it?”

“I must.”

“You, Anna? This is madness. Some trouble has driven you wild.”

“No, I am not wild, nor wicked enough to break a sacred promise.”

“A sacred promise? Who exacted this promise?”

“One who had a right?”

“One who had a right! Who on earth has any right over you, Anna Burns? Are you not in every thing but words my betrothed wife?”

“I was—I was!” cried the poor girl, wringing her hands in piteous distress. “But every thing is changed.”

A flash of the old suspicion came over Savage; he strode across the room, and seizing Anna by the wrist, drew her with gentle violence through the door.

“Look me in the face, Anna Burns, and say, if you have the courage, that this change is in yourself.”

She cast a piteous look into his face, and strove to force her hand from his grasp.

“Girl! Girl! Has your heart become so false that it dares not look through your eyes?”

“It is breaking! It is breaking!” she cried, desperately yielding her feeble strength to his.

“Breaking? For what—for whom?”

“You wound it so. Every one I meet gives it a blow.”

“I wound it? Girl! Girl! Two days ago I would have died to save you an hour’s pain!”

“But now you hate, you despise me!” moaned the poor young creature, giving him one look that went to his heart.

“Why should you think so, Anna? If you have done nothing to earn hate or contempt, how could the idea enter your heart?”

“I—I cannot tell. I can tell you nothing, Mr. Savage, only that I have made a promise, and must keep it.”

Savage grasped her hand so fiercely that it pained her.

“Girl, answer me. Was that promise made to Mr. Ward?”

“Mr. Ward?”

Her face became instantly crimson with flashing blood.

“Mr. Ward? Who told you? Who—who——‘

She remembered her second promise to Mrs. Savage in time, and grew coldly white again.

“Those who know him to be under the same roof with you told me, Anna. If you could only know how I have reproached myself for believing them.”

“But you must believe them,” she said. The words fell from her lips sharp and cold, like hailstones on frozen snow. She shivered under his eye, and made another, wild effort to release herself. But he held her in an iron grasp.

“Anna, do you love that man?”

His voice was low and hoarse; his eyes were full of passionate pleading; all his pride was forgotten then. He was a man pleading for the very life of his love.

“Do you love that man?”

“Oh! let me go! I pray of you let me go!”

“Not till you answer me, Anna.”

“What was it you asked me to say?” she faltered, humbly.

“I asked if you loved that man Ward?”

“I could not answer that question. I—I wonder how you can ask it.”

“Another, then—and for mercy’s sake, be frank. Have you ceased to love me? Anna, is it so?”

Anna would not tell a lie. She could be silent, and so keep her promise; but to say that she did not love that man, when every thought of her brain and pulse of her being was drawing her soul into his, was a blasphemy against love that she recoiled from.

“Oh, Anna! is it all over between us?”

She began to weep; great tears broke through those drooping eyelashes.

“Yes,” she said, mournfully. “It is all over between us.”

“And you will marry that man?”

“No! No! He does not wish it. I—I——”

She broke off, as if a shot had penetrated her heart; for Savage had dropped her hand with a gesture of sweet anguish, as only a proud man feels when the woman he loves sinks into degradation. Fortunately for her secret, she neither understood the gesture, or the thought that made him turn so deadly white. She had paused suddenly, because the words on her lips were about to betray her. The next words that Savage addressed to her made the heart in her bosom thrill and ache as it had never done before.

“Anna, listen. I am going now, and you may never hear my voice again.”

A sob broke on her white lips. She drooped before him, white and still; but, oh! how miserable! ready for the last killing words.

“If—if this man should become weary of you——”

“Weary of me?”

There was pride on her lip, and fire in her eyes now; but this only revolted Savage. It seemed to him like the confidence of a vain woman, secure in her unhappy position.

“This may happen, Anna.”

“No, Mr. Savage, it never can.”

“But men do change sometimes,” he answered bitterly, “almost as readily as women. When this time comes, send to me. I shall never, of my own will, speak to you again; but while I have a dollar you shall never want.”

Anna was weeping bitterly now. She strove to answer him, but her throat gave forth nothing but sobs.

“Do you promise, Anna, if any thing connected with you could give me a gleam of pleasure, it would be a certainty that you would send to me in your trouble or your need?”

“I will—I will,” she cried out.

“And to no other person?”

“To you, and no other.”

“Now, farewell, Anna.”

She took his hand in hers; she pressed her lips upon it again and again, covering it with tears and passionate kisses.

“It is forever—it is forever!” she sobbed in despair. “Do not hate me. Think kindly of me sometimes. Tell your mother——”

“Tell my mother what, Anna? She will be sorry to hear this. She has been kind to you.”

“Kind! Oh, yes! very kind.” There was bitterness in her heart, and it broke up through her sobs.

“But what must I tell her?”

“Nothing.”

“I will tell her nothing,” he answered sadly.

He made an effort to take away his hand, but it brought a cry of such anguish from her that he desisted, and strove to soothe her.

“And after what you have told me, it is only pain to stay near you.”

“I know it,” she said; “terrible pain!”

They were both silent now. She still clung to his hand, but was growing calmer. The storm of tears was ending in short, dry sobs; and she lifted her eyes to him with a look of such yearning tenderness, such humble deprecation, that his own eyes were flooded.

“You will not hate me?” she said.

“No, Anna. Heaven knows that is not in my power!”

“And sometimes, when you are married to some lady——”

“I shall not marry for many a long year, Anna.”

“There is Miss Halstead!”

“Hush! That name on your lips wounds me.”

“You will marry her?”

“Hush!” he said, “I cannot bear that.”

“And when you are happy, sometimes think kindly of the poor girl who is not so very bad.”

“Anna, I shall always think kindly of you. God forgive you that I cannot mingle respect with kindness!”

“Then you think I have done very wrong?”

“Yes; very, very wrong.”

“Ah, me! How can I help it? Which way shall I turn? It is hard to be so young, with only a dear old grandmother to show you the right way.”

“It is hard, poor child!”

“And I have tried to do my best—indeed, I have.”

“Tried and failed. Unhappy girl!”

“Yes, I am an unhappy girl—so unhappy that I sometimes think there never was a creature so wretched. Then I must not let her see it, or the boys—they have so little pleasure, you know; but they are affectionate, and will find me out; but not if I can help it.”

She said all this in a low, dreary voice, that would have touched a heart of granite. Savage felt his resentment, his pride and his strength giving away. He would have given the world to take that young creature in his arms and weep over her. But it could not be. Her hands had fallen away from his unconsciously. She had covered her face with them. Savage turned from her and softly left the room; he had no heart to attempt another farewell.

Anna felt the silence, and, looking up, saw that he was gone. She heard his footsteps going rapidly down the stairs. Quick as thought she snatched up her bonnet and shawl. She would not part with him so. If the whole world dropped from under her feet she would follow him. Down the stairs she went like a lapwing, wrapping the shawl about her as she ran. He walked swiftly, as men do when stung to quick motion by pain. She soon came up with him; but that moment a panic of shame seized her, and she lagged behind, growing fainter and fainter each moment. An impulse of self-preservation had sent her into the street. She could not part with him so. That proud woman had no right to ask it. She would follow him home. She would demand a release from her promise from that haughty woman in his presence, and tell him how she loathed that man Ward; that a thousand thousand worlds would not induce her to marry him. How could he believe it of her, even though she told it herself?

Wild with these rash thoughts, she would have called out for him to stop; but she was panting for breath, and no sound came when she made a wild effort to utter his name.

Then, with the faintness, came other thoughts. His parents never would consent that he should marry her. It would be ruin, utter ruin to him. What wild, wicked thing was she about? After resisting her own love, and his unhappiness so bravely, was she to destroy it all and ruin him because of that awful heartache? But she was so tired, so completely worn out. A few moments she would rest on that door-step, and then go home. It did not matter much what became of her, since he had gone, believing her a fickle, heartless girl, capable of marrying that creature. No; it was of very little consequence, for—for—for——

Unhappy girl, she had fallen into insensibility on that door-step, and there she lay like a lost lamb, pale and still.

Anna had scarcely rested on those cold stones five minutes, when an old man turned from the street and was about to mount the steps. He saw her lying there, with the light from a street lamp blazing on her features. They were so white that he thought at first she must be dead. Stooping down, he found that she had fainted, and rang the bell violently. A servant came out, and lifting the insensible girl between them, master and man bore her into that old-fashioned family mansion, which I have described in the early part of this story.

They laid her on a broad-seated old sofa in the front room, and then, for the first time, that strange old man recognized her as the girl he had seen in that poverty-stricken home picture. He had been a voyage to Europe since then, but those delicate features were fresh in his memory yet.

“Bring brandy, wine, every thing that can help her out of this cold fit,” he said to the servant. “I know the girl, and will take charge of her myself.”

The wine and brandy were brought. With his old hand shaking the glass unsteadily, the master poured wine through those white lips. It was a simple case of exhaustion, and Anna soon felt a glow of life diffusing itself through her frame.

“Give me another glass—not the brandy, that is too strong; but generous wine hurts no one. Take another drink, child, and then tell me all about it. Remember, I am your friend.”

“Yes,” said Anna, “I remember you were very good to grandmother and the children once. We do not forget such kindness.”

“But how happens it that you are here?” inquired the old man, smoothing her hair with his hand. “Come out on an errand, I suppose, or something like that, and wilted down on my door-step. Singular, wasn’t it? Do you know that your brother is in my employ? Found the place out for himself; didn’t know it was mine. Mean to make a man of that shaver, I promise you. True as steel, and good as gold. Now tell me all about yourself.”

“Oh! if I only could,” she said, looking earnestly in his face.

“But you can. Of course, you can.”

“Perhaps you might help me,” she said, rising to her elbow. “Somehow I feel as if——but you couldn’t.”

“Who knows? I have helped a great many people in my lifetime.”

“But not young girls like me, who have troubles that money cannot cure.”

“Little lady, permit me to doubt that.”

She rose higher on the sofa-pillows, and looked at him with her great, earnest eyes.

“I will fancy that you are my father, and tell you every thing,” she said.

“Do,” answered the old man, but his voice shook a little; “do.”

Anna told him every thing, even to her love for Horace Savage, for the old man helped her forward with low spoken questions, and she could talk to him with more ease than if it had been her grandmother, with whom she was just a little shy about some of her feelings. There may be things in the human heart which we can confide to strangers more easily than we can explain them to our dearest friends. At any rate, Anna opened her innocent, young heart to that old man, as if she had been saying her prayers before God. With him she felt such a sense of protection that she smiled in his face more than once through her tears.

“Let the whole thing alone, child. Move into the new house as soon as you like, and wait till I can think every thing over. But, above all things, get a little sunshine into those eyes; you shall never be sorry for having trusted the old man. As for that young scamp, Ward, Gould shall take care of him. But where do you live?”

Anna gave him the name and number of the house. He seemed surprised.

“Why, that house belongs to me; and you have been paying rent in it all the time to this good-hearted woman? I remember, my agent said that he had a good tenant there. I wont forget that the woman has been kind to you and your grandmother.”

“Most of all to her,” said Anna.

“And this grandmother—does she bear her age well?”

“Oh! you must ask some one else—to me grandma is lovely.”

“And she was kind to you?”

“Kind!”

Anna’s fine eyes opened wide at the question.

“I was foolish to ask that, of course—grandmothers are always kind.”

“But she isn’t, like any other grandmother that ever lived. She has petted us, worked for us, gone without food that we might have enough. When my father was alive——”

“Hush! hush! we need not speak of him. Robert has told me all about that.”

The old man was a little excited, and seemed to shrink into himself when Anna mentioned her father. So she changed the subject, and said she must go home; they would miss her and be frightened.

“Yes,” the old man said, “perhaps they would. She was looking natural again and might go; but it would be as well not to say where she had been. No good in talking too much, even if it was only to an old grandmother.”

Anna promised not to say any thing about her little adventure. It did really seem to her as if Providence had taken away her strength at that door-step for some kind purpose, with which it would be sacrilege for her to interfere. She had a world of faith in that old man’s power to help her, and went home, if not happy, greatly comforted.

The very next morning young Gould sought an interview with his uncle, and told him the whole story about young Ward, and his own great fault regarding the Burns family. He concealed nothing, either of his former extravagant entanglements, or the last vile act which this man had perpetrated under his patronage.

The old man listened in dead silence till Gould had exhausted his subject. Then he looked him quietly in the face, and spoke in his usual dry fashion.

“Had you succeeded in really injuring this girl, I should have broken with you forever,” he said.

“I—I never thought of injuring her. It was only a freak, a sudden fancy to know who and what she was. I hope you believe me, uncle?”

“If I did not, you would have little chance to convince me, for I would not endure you in my presence an hour. Let that pass. You were about to say something more—ask something of me, I believe?”

“Yes, sir, I was. Having given these people some annoyance——”

“Driven them from their home, in fact,” broke in the uncle

“Yes, as you say, driven them from their home. I—I should like, in short, to give them a better one.”

“But that is already secured to them.”

“How did you know that, uncle? Oh! I see, you have been questioning the boy. But there is something about this new home that I do not like, uncle. I think young Savage is at the bottom of that movement.”

“Very likely. He seems a generous young fellow enough.”

“But I cannot accept his generosity. No man shall be permitted to pay the penalty of my fault.”

“No man? What if I choose to take that in, with your other expenses?”

“Ah! that is another thing.”

“Entirely! Well, now do not trouble yourself about young Savage, if you love the girl.”

“But I don’t. On the contrary, uncle, I am deuced near loving another girl, if not quite in for it.”

“That is fortunate, because I could not permit you to marry this one. She’s too good for you, fifty per cent. too good.”

“Well, uncle, we wont quarrel about that. But the new home. Either Savage or old Mrs. Halstead is providing that, and I wont permit it. We must take this on ourselves.”

“We?”

“Yes. For what am I without you?”

The old man’s eyes glistened. He took young Gould’s hand in his with a vigorous pressure.

“True enough—true enough! No man is sufficient to himself. That which men call independence of our fellow-creatures only brings loneliness. But about this house, nephew? It belongs to me—I own all that property, every foot of it, and better paying houses can’t be found. Old Mrs. Halstead lived in one of ’em before she took up her residence with her husband’s son, and we’ve kept it on hand, thinking that she might want to go back.”

“Then you know Mrs. Halstead?”

“A little. She was my tenant. Well, your suspicions were right. Young Savage did want to make the family more comfortable. He is an honorable young fellow, Gould, and did not want to risk the girl’s good name by direct help—so he went to Halstead’s daughter.”

“What, Miss Eliza?”

“No. I think they call her Georgiana.”

“Confound his impudence!” muttered Gould.

“What were you saying, nephew?”

“Nothing, sir. But is Savage so intimate with the Halsteads as that?”

“Decidedly. Mrs. Savage hints that there is an engagement between her son and the young lady.”

“I—I don’t believe it, sir.”

“Nor I. At any rate, this Georgiana consented to act as his agent; and, thinking as you do, that old people are worth something in an emergency, she went at once to her grandmother for help. Her grandmother came to me about the house, and I took the whole affair off her hands, knowing what a scamp you have been, and guessing that you would be wild to make atonement.”

“Uncle!”

“Well, sir.”

“You are too good. I am unworthy of all this kindness.”

“Of course you are!” said the old man, looking at him with eyes that twinkled as through a mist. “But what about this little Halstead girl?”

“Uncle, since I saw her in that garret with that family, I honestly believe I am getting in love with that girl!”

“Hem!” muttered the old man, pressing his thin lips to keep them from smiling too broadly; “the second confession in twenty-four hours. I wonder if Miss Eliza would lend me her flying cupid?”

“Why, what do you know about the cupid?” inquired Gould, laughing.

“Oh! the young lady sent for me, and I went. She was in full state with that little winged imp dancing over her.”

“Did she ask you to sit on the ottoman?” asked Gould, going into convulsions of laughter.

“Yes; but I told her my joints were too rusty.”

“And she answered that ‘hearts never grow old.’ I know all about it. Oh! uncle, beware! But what on earth did she want of you?”

“She wanted to make some inquiries about my nephew.”

“What?”

“How much he was worth in his own right, and if I knew that his heart was touched.”

“No!”

“If he would, in the end, be my heir; and if I intended to divide with him before my death.”

“Oh! ah, this is too much. Had the creature an idea about Georgiana? Was I goose enough to let her guess that?”

“Georgiana! Nothing of that; Miss Eliza was speaking in her own behalf.”

“Oh, uncle! that’s too bad; with all my faults, I do not deserve that.”

“It is the solemn truth, though.”

Here the old man broke into a low, chuckling laugh; and Gould, well-bred as he was, broke into a wild ecstasy of fun.

“She asked my consent.”

“What! under the cupid?”

“Said she could not think of encouraging your devotion without that.”

“No! no! no! she didn’t do that!”

“Said that it was but right to confess that her first maiden affections had, for a moment, wandered to another, who might even then hold her in honor bound to him; but her love, the pure, deep, holy, irresistible feeling would forever turn to my nephew, though she might, such was her fine sense of honor, be compelled to marry another.”

“Oh, uncle, uncle! do break off. I shall die—I shall die with laughing. Have mercy, uncle.”

“I am an indulgent old fellow, Gould, and I told her that my consent should not be withheld, when you asked it.”

“You did—and then?”

“Then she kissed my hand, slid down, with one knee on the ottoman, and asked my blessing.”

“And you gave it?”

“No, Gould; an old man’s blessing is too sacred for such trifling; but Louis the grand, never lifted a woman from her knees more regally. She was delighted with me.”

“I wonder she did not put in a reversionary interest in yourself, uncle.”

“She did, rather. I think she said, if her young heart had not gone out to my nephew, it would still have rested in the family.”

“Excuse me, uncle, but this is getting too funny; I have got a pain in my side already. Just let me off awhile till I take breath.”

“But about Georgiana?”

“Don’t uncle. I cannot bear to have that sweet girl mentioned in the same day with that excruciating old maid.”

“That is right, Gould. We’ll talk of her another time.”

CHAPTER XX.
A BOLD STROKE FOR A HUSBAND.

Georgiana Halstead called on Mrs. Savage as she had promised. She knew nothing of the change that had come over Horace, and went with a heavy heart to perform a painful task. Mrs. Savage received her with more than her usual cordiality. She took off her bonnet with her own hands, smoothed her hair caressingly, and kissed her forehead before she allowed the girl to find a seat.

“And how is my pet of pets?” she said, smiling down upon that lovely face. “It is a long time since you have been here, child.”

“Yes,” said Georgie. “I have been so busy, so—that is, I have not felt like going out.”

“Ah! I understand it all. Miss Eliza has been talking to you; what a mischievous creature she is. But do not believe a word of it, dear. Horace cares no more about that Burns girl than I do.”

“But I thought you liked her so much!” said Georgie faithful to her promise. “Why not, she is a good girl, and so pretty?”

“Why, Georgie, what has come over you? But, perhaps, Eliza has been discreet for once.”

“No, she hasn’t. Aunt Eliza don’t know what discretion is. She told me a hundred cruel things about that poor girl; but not one of them is true.”

“And, among the rest, something about my son. Confess, dear, that she has?”

“Well, yes, I do not deny that. But, so far as relates to him, I think it is the truth.”

“You think it is the truth, Georgie, and speak so quietly about it? How can you?”

“She is a dear, sweet girl, Mrs. Savage; and I think Horace loves her.”

“Horace does no such thing, Georgie, and you know it. His real love has always been for you, my own child.”

“I hope not,” answered Georgie, demurely; “for I can never love him.”

“Georgiana Halstead!”

“It is true, Mrs. Savage. I haven’t had the courage to tell you so before, because your heart was set on it; but, try as hard as we will, Horace and I cannot—that is, I cannot marry Horace.”

Poor child! how she struggled to shield her pride, and yet speak the truth. She was trembling all over, and yet smiled into Mrs. Savage’s astonished face, as if it were the easiest thing in the world that she was doing.

“Georgiana, I cannot think that you are in earnest.”

“Indeed, Mrs. Savage, you must think so.”

“You are angry about the girl, and will not let me know it.”

“Indeed, I am not. In my whole life I never saw a finer girl—she is worth a dozen of me.”

“No human being could ever claim half so much, dear little Georgie. Come, come, tell me the truth; you are very angry with Horace, and no wonder—he tries even my patience.”

“Mrs. Savage, do believe me; I am not in the least angry with any one. It is only that neither Horace nor I wish to marry each other. We have always been good friends; and I would so like to be related to you, but without mutual love it would be wicked.”

“Then you really do not love my son?”

“Don’t, please, make me repeat it over and over! It seems so harsh; but you must not expect any thing of the kind.”

Mrs. Savage threw her arms around Georgie where she sat, and laid her cheek against her hair.

“Oh, Georgie, Georgie! you will not disappoint me so.”

The woman was in earnest; her voice broke, and tears fell upon the girl’s bright hair. Then Georgie began to tremble, and burst into tears.

“Dear child, you are crying, too. I felt sure that you could not persist in this cruel resolution. Come, child, kiss me, and forget all that has been said.”

“No, no, dear friend. I—I am only crying because it is impossible. Hearts are not to be forced.”

“But he loves you. Believe it, for he does!”

“I am very sorry; but that can make no difference.”

“Do you love any one else, Georgiana Halstead?”

A new thought had struck the proud woman; you could tell that from the imperious tone in which she spoke.

“You must not ask me any thing more,” answered Georgie. “I have said all that you will care to hear.”

“I think you have all conspired to drive me frantic’” said Mrs. Savage, throwing herself back in her chair: “I thought every thing was settled so nicely. Now you come to disturb me. But I will not give this match up. It has been in my heart since you were children.”

“We must give it up. But do not love me less for that, dear Mrs. Savage. If we could love according to our own will, I would gladly be your daughter. But from this hour we must never think of it again.”

Georgie flung her arms around Mrs. Savage, and kissed her face, which had an expression upon it half stern, half sorrowful. Then the two women burst into tears, and clung to each other, sobbing.

“It is because I grieve to disappoint you!” said Georgie, sweeping the tears from her eyes. “It breaks my heart, for I do love you as if you were my own mother.”

“Ah! reconsider it, Georgie—I may be that.”

“If I could—if I could!” cried Georgie, hurrying on her things. “Good-by—good-by. It is all my fault; but I cannot help it.”

Poor Georgie. She had gone through her generous task bravely, but she shook with agitation all the way home; and, once there, locked herself into her own little sitting-room, and cried herself into complete exhaustion, huddled up in the easy-chair, in which she had suffered so terribly when Savage first made her his confidant.

That evening young Savage came to see her, looking so miserably wretched that she forgot her own sorrow in pity for him. “What had gone wrong?” she asked, “he looked so ill.”

“Nothing!” For the world he would not have told her, or any one, of the broken hopes that had left him so depressed. To have hinted at this would be a sacrilege to the love that Anna Burns had forfeited. He looked at Georgie earnestly. Sorrow had rendered him sympathetic. Some vague idea of the disappointment which had left the violet shadows, so deep and dark, about her eyes, fell upon him; but he did not guess at the whole truth, but took a misty idea that she, too, had loved some one—young Gould, perhaps—and been disenchanted as he was.

“After all, Georgie,” he said, “it would have been better if you and I could have gotten up a grand passion for each other. It would have pleased our parents, if nothing more.”

Georgiana smiled sadly enough.

“But it was impossible,” she said, in a faint voice. “That was what she had told his mother not three hours before.”

“You told her this? Oh! now I remember! It was I who asked you. But it was selfish. I had no right to wound your delicacy so.”

“But it was best. She had been cherishing a delusion. Very soon you will tell her all.”

Savage did not answer. He longed to make a confidant of Georgiana, but his heart was too freshly wounded, he could not expose its misery to her. Besides, how could he pain that pure heart with the story he had to relate?

“We have found a house for Mrs. Burns,” said Georgie; “such a pretty place, you would almost think yourself in the country.”

“Will they go? Does she accept it?”

“Yes, the old lady is delighted. Anna seems less glad, but she accepts the change, and is grateful for it. But some change has come upon her, more depressing than poverty—that she bore well.”

“You noticed it, then? You saw how sadly she was altered?” said Savage; “but did you guess the cause?”

“No; how could I? Perhaps she has heard some of the unkind things Aunt Eliza is saying of her, though I cannot think how.”

“Did you talk with her? Will she tell you nothing.”

“No; she said very little, but her voice was full of tears. It broke my heart to see her look of suffering.”

“She does suffer, then, poor girl?”

“I should think so—but why? No doubt she is very anxious. You have a little of the same look. Better ask your mother at once; with so much happiness lying beyond her consent, it is a pity to lose a day in doubt.”

“Not yet. I shall not speak to my mother of this yet.”

“Oh! that is what troubles Anna. But why?”

“Do not ask me, Georgie. The other night I could tell you every thing, but now I am full of uncertainty myself.”

“But you love her; there is no doubt on that point?” she asked, eagerly.

“No; unhappily. I wish——But what is the use of wishing. Let us talk of something else—the house, for instance.”

“Oh! it is such a pretty duck of a house, half verandahs, half little rooms, and the rest honeysuckles and roses. Just the place for them.”

“But you will want money to pay for every thing. Pray hand this to your grandmother.”

“She will not take it. I asked her and she said no; she had made all the arrangements about money.”

Savage turned crimson, and held the envelope, which he had extended to her, irresolutely.

“Georgiana, be honest with me. Has Anna Burns refused to accept this kindness? Has any other person preceded me here?”

“No, no! I am sure Anna accepted grandmamma’s help gratefully enough; and the dear old lady would not allow any person to help her if she refused you; that is, any other young person. She is not rich; grandpapa had but little when he died; but she can afford to do this.”

Savage put the envelope in his pocket, sighing heavily. “So it seems I am to be put aside everywhere,” he said.

“Not at all; only grandmamma thinks it best that no young man should help pay for the home she has selected for Anna Burns.”

“She is right. You tell me that she has met Anna?”

“Oh, yes! and liked her so much!”

“Georgie!”

“What is it, Mr. Savage?”

“You will keep my secret? You will not mention any thing that I said to you the other day?”

“How can you think I would?”

“True, how could I?”

“Any thing else? You seem so anxious and strange to-night.”

“Yes, one thing more, Georgie. I have got you into this affair——”

“Affair! Why, how you talk!”

“Well, let me express myself better. It was through my mother you were introduced to Anna Burns. She really knew very little of the family.”

Georgie opened her beautiful eyes wide, and sat upright in her chair, staring at him.

“Why, Horace Savage, are you turning against that poor girl?”

“No, no! God forbid!”

“Then what is it you are trying to say and cannot?”

“Nothing, only this; I shall never marry Anna Burns.”

“Why, Mr. Savage, why?”

“She does not love me.”

For one instant Georgie’s face was radiant, then it slowly settled back to its former gentle sadness, and she said, with firmness,

“That is terrible, for she loves you!”

“No!”

“I tell you she does.”

“Still it can never be. All I ask is, Georgie, that you will let this good grandmother care for this family without—without interference on your part.”

“That is, you don’t wish me to have much intimacy with Anna Burns.”

“It would pain me to put it in that form.”

“But that is what you mean. Well, Mr. Savage, I cannot consent to it. I have promised these people to befriend them. They are no common objects of charity, but refined, and gently bred as I am. You may forsake them, but I never will.”

Savage gazed on the young girl with more admiration than he had ever felt for her in his life before. How was he to act? In what way could he warn the girl, and keep her safe from evil associations, and yet protect his knowledge of Anna Burns’ unworthiness?

“Poor Anna! Poor, dear girl! I know how to pity her!” murmured Georgie, with tears in her eyes.

“God bless you, Georgie! What a good heart you have!”

Savage sat down by her, and taking her hand, kissed it.

“Miss Georgiana Halstead, is this the way you answer my messages?” The door of Georgie’s sitting-room had been softly opened, and Miss Eliza stood on the threshold in a dress of blue silk, and with natural roses in her hair.

“I—I did not receive any message,” answered Georgiana, shivering.

“But I sent one, asking Mr. Savage to my room.”

“I will see you presently, Miss Eliza,” said Savage, coming to Georgiana’s aid. “The servant gave me your message in the hall; Miss Halstead knew nothing about it. I had a little special business with her.”

“Indeed! Then I will retire.”

Miss Eliza gave him an imperial courtesy, and gave them both a fine view of her sweeping train as she passed up the stairs.

“Do go,” said Georgiana, smiling in spite of all her trouble; “she will give me no peace for a week to come if you keep her waiting. Besides, she saw you kissing my hand, and it would be an awkward subject at the breakfast table before papa.”

“Rather!” answered Savage. “But, tell me, Georgiana, what shall I do if she proposes to me outright? She looked capable of it, on my word she did.”

“Do?” answered Georgie, brightening under the idea. “Why, marry her; it will serve you right for asking me to give up Anna Burns. I won’t do it, make sure of that.”

“What a thing it is to fear no evil. God bless the girl! What if her answers were wiser than all my worldly wisdom?”

Miss Eliza was kneeling by her cozy chair, half prostrated on the floor, over which the broad circumference of her crinoline, and waves on waves of blue silk swept in rustling waves. She was crying, partly from pure vexation, and partly because tears would be extremely convenient just at that moment.

A light knock came to the door. She started, turned over one shoulder, shook out the folds of her dress, and bent to her grief again.

Another knock; a third, somewhat louder, and the door opened.

“Did you tell me to come in?”

Miss Eliza started from her knees, with a splendid sweep of her draperies, and turning away her head, wiped the tears from her eyes with ostentatious privacy.

“Oh, Mr. Savage! I—I did not hear you. Pray be seated; in a few moments I shall be more composed.”

“What has happened to trouble you, Miss Halstead?” inquired Savage, looking innocent as a lamb.

“Oh! can you ask? That scene! That terrible enlightenment! Horace! dear Horace——What am I about! Has my sensitive nature lost its pride; all the lofty feeling which hedges in the love of a woman’s heart like—like——

“Like the bur around a half-ripe chestnut,” suggested Savage. It was very impudent, truly; but the young fellow could not have helped saying it to save his life—it came into his mind and out on his lips so suddenly.

“Do you mock my anguish? Load my desolate heart with ridicule?” cried the lady, dashing back the skirt of her dress like a tragedy queen in high agony. “Has it come to this?”

“I beg ten thousand pardons, Miss Halstead!” said Savage, blushing for himself; “but you seemed at a loss for some comparison, and that came into my mind—not a bad one, either, when you reflect how those ten thousand little thorns keep rude hands from the fruit, guarding it sacredly till the burs open of themselves, and let the nuts drop out.”

“Mr. Savage,” said Eliza, “I beg your pardon; it was a beautiful idea; my heart feels all its poetry. The thorns you speak of are piercing it, oh, how cruelly! The bur has opened, the fruit has dropped out, and you are treading it under your feet.”

“I—I, Miss Eliza?”

“Yes, you; the betrothed of my soul! But it is all over; never in this world can we be to each other what we have been.”

“Why, Miss Halstead?”

“There it is; Miss Halstead—cold, cruel, Miss Halstead?”

“But I do not understand.”

“And never, never will!” cried Miss Eliza, spreading one hand over her bosom. “No common mind can ever comprehend the anguish buried here.”

“But what is this all about? I am quite unconscious of having offended you.”

“Offended! Does love take offence? Does despair reveal itself in anger? Oh, Mr. Savage! it was not three days ago that I received the most touching proposal—money, position, manly beauty, every thing that could tempt the heart from its allegiance to a beloved object, or kindle the ambition. But I refused it, gently, kindly—but I refused it.”

“And why, Miss Halstead?”

“Why? Great heavens! He asks me, why?”

She turned her eyes upon him; she clasped her hands, and sunk upon her knees, burying her face in the cushions of that most convenient chair.

“He asks me, why! He asks me, why!”

Her shoulders began to heave under the thin lace that covered them; her head swayed to and fro in spasms of grief. She crushed a little web of fine linen and lace up to her eyes with both hands, and wet it with her tears.

“I tear you from my heart! I give you up!” she cried. “Cold, hard man! you see me at your feet without pity! With my own eyes I have witnessed your faithlessness; but you make no effort at consolation; explain nothing!”

“What can I explain, madam?”

“Madam!”

She arose slowly to her full height, and, pointing her finger at his astonished face, said, with solemn emphasis,

“Mr. Savage, did I not see you kissing Georgiana Halstead’s hand?”

Savage laughed, a little nervously, it must be confessed.

“It is possible. Yes, I dare say you did.”

“He owns it! He glories in his unfaithfulness!” she cried out, wringing her hands. “Was ever treason like this?”

“Really, Miss Halstead, this scene is getting tedious,” said Savage, losing all patience. “I am not aware of ever having given you a right to address me in this way.”

“Sir,” answered the lady, “I am aware of my rights, and will maintain them. To-morrow my brother shall call upon you to decide between his sister and his child.”

“Miss Halstead, are you insane?”

“If I am, Horace, who drove me to it? Oh! this will break your mother’s heart.”

“Miss Halstead, sit down, and let me talk with you reasonably. You know as well as I that this idea of an engagement is an impossibility—that it never existed.”

She had seated herself, and held that morsel of a handkerchief to her eyes.

“If you have any thing to say in excuse for this cruel treachery, I will listen,” she said, with broken-hearted resignation. “Heaven knows my heart pleads for you.”

“I have nothing to say, madam,” answered Savage, completely out of patience, “except that this farce is fortunate in having no other witnesses. The wisest thing that you or I can do, is to forget it as soon as possible.”

Miss Eliza saw the quiet resolution in his face, and went gradually out of the little drama that she had acted so well. Her sobs were subdued; the morsel of a handkerchief fluttered less frequently to her eyes. She sat down, crest-fallen, with her two hands lying loosely in her lap. Her grand coup d’etat had signally failed. Savage neither soothed, promised, or admitted any thing. All that was left to her was the most graceful retreat she could make.

“Mr. Savage,” she said, holding out her hand, “let us be friends. If this artful girl has won you from me, let us be friends, eternal friends. This proud heart shall break in silence, if it must break. But there may be a future for us yet—something that the angels can look upon with pleasure.

“‘Is there no other tie to bind

The constant heart, the willing mind?

Is love the only chain?

Ah, yes! there is a tie as strong,

That hinds as firm, and lasts as long—

True friendship is its name.’

Mr. Savage, let us work out this beautiful idea. My soul turns toward it for consolation. Mr. Savage, are we friends?”

Savage took the hand she held out, bowed over it, and went away.

“Ah!” said Miss Eliza, leaning back in her chair—for high tragedy is exhausting—“Ah! how fortunate it is that Mr. Gould presented himself in time. He wishes to renew his acquaintance. With him a sure foundation of a family compact exist—that interview with the old gentleman was a masterpiece. If—if the young man should prove treacherous, like the heart traitor who has just left me, there is still this elderly person, rich as Vanderbilt, almost, and not so very old. He admired me greatly; I could see it in the twinkle of his eyes, in the smile that flitted across his lips. But only as a last resort—only as a last resort.”

CHAPTER XXI.
A HUNGRY HEART.

It was the last day of the Burns family in that tenement-house. The landlady was breaking her heart over their departure. She felt as if she had driven them from beneath her roof, with unjust suspicions, and lamented her fault with noisy grief, that distressed that dear old lady, and brought the kindest assurance from Anna, who came out of her own sorrows to comfort her old friend.

“I wouldn’t care about the rent, Mrs. Burns,” protested the good woman. “You know as well as I do that I could have got more money for the rooms, and can now; but it was like home having you about me. It was respectable; and them children, maybe I ain’t made as much on ’em as I oughter; but it’ll be so lonesome not hearing ’em going up and down stairs, especially Joseph. I don’t say it to praise myself, but I never saw a big, red apple in the market that I didn’t buy it for that boy; and I’d have given you any thing, when the tough times came on you, if I’d only known how.”

“You were kind to us—very kind; we shall never forget it,” said old Mrs. Burns. “The children love you dearly.”

“And will be agin, if you’ll let me. If these silk-gown friends of yours should ever get tired of being kind, I’m on hand here, just as good as ever. This steel thimble ain’t more faithful to my finger than I will be to you and yours.”

Here the good woman fairly broke down, and burying her face in the sailor’s jacket she was making, sobbed violently.

“I wont let the rooms yet, though I am back in the rent. Who knows what may happen?” she said, at last, wiping the tears from her eyes. “This ain’t the last time you’ll be under my roof. As for Joseph——Well, I ain’t got words to express my feelings for him!”

“He will never forget you,” said the old lady, reaching out her hand, which shook a little—for that hard-faced woman had been a friend to her when she had no other. “And I shall never think of you without a warmer feeling at the heart. But it is not far off. We will come and see you often, and—and——”

Here the old lady found herself clasped in the landlady’s arms, and lost her breath in that sudden embrace.

“And I’ll come to see you. I hope it’s a palace you’re going to; and then it wouldn’t be good enough.”

Mrs. Burns left that commonplace-room with tears in her eyes. She did not know how dear it had been to her. Anna, too, was very sad. She had heard nothing from old Mr. Gould; and her life was so far removed from that of Savage that he might have been dead, and she ignorant of it. Georgiana Halstead was the only human link between her and her lover; but that young lady never even mentioned his name. She was just as kind as ever; came to see them, and took a deep interest in every thing about their little household; but the name which Anna Burns so longed to hear never passed her lips.

So the last night had come; all their little effects were packed up ready for moving. The boys had gone over to the new house, which they had not yet seen. Joseph had walked by the house with a bundle of newspapers under his arm, and came home that night in wonderful spirits, leaping up the stairs two steps at a time. When Robert asked him what it was all about, he answered,

“Balconies, vines, garden, and snow-balls, with something like a house back of it. Stupendous!”

So Robert had gone with his brother that evening, with a candle, and box of matches, to see what was behind the snow-balls and vines, leaving those two females alone in the rooms.

“Grandmother,” said Anna, sitting down by the old lady, “you have been crying.”

“Yes, child. She was so kind, and so sorry, I could not help it.”

“Grandmother?”

“Well, darling?”

“Do you think we shall ever be happy again? That is, happy as we were before this prosperity came upon us?”

“Are you so very miserable, my darling?”

“Yes, so miserable, so dreadfully miserable. Oh, grandma, grandma! my heart is breaking.”

“My child! Anna Burns! There, there, lay your head on my bosom. I thought it was hard to see you hungry, dear; but this is worse, a thousand times worse.”

“Oh, grandmother! my heart is hungry, now.”

“I know it; God help us, I know it!”

“Oh! what can I do? What can I do?”

“Have patience, child.”

“I have tried to have patience; but it is killing me.”

“Pray to God, child—pray to God; he alone can feed a hungry heart.”

“I have prayed, but he will not hear me,” cried Anna, giving way to a passion of grief.

“Yes, Anna, he heard me when I cried out to him in the depths of a sorrow deep as yours.”

“Deep as mine! Oh, grandmother! tell me what it was. Have you ever suffered so?”

“I will tell you, Anna; God forbid that I should keep back even my own sorrow, if the telling will help you to bear that which is upon you. I was older than you, dear, some two or three years, when I was married to your grandfather. How dearly I loved him no human being will ever guess, Anna, dear. It was wicked to love any one as I worshipped your grandfather; as I worship him yet; for such feelings live through old age.”

“Do they—do they? When love becomes a pain, does it ache on through the whole life?” cried Anna, trembling with agitation. “Does nothing even quiet it?”

“Yes, darling; God can turn pain into resignation.”

“But must I wait to be old for that, grandmother?” cried Anna, bursting into tears.

“Hush, darling, hush! I did not say that.”

“Go on, grandmother,” said Anna, drawing a deep breath, “I will not interrupt you again. You were telling about grandfather?”

“Yes, dear. We had a son, your father. We were not rich; but had enough, and were very, very happy. I know he loved me, then, and I tried to be a good wife and a kind mother.”

“The best mother that ever lived; my father always said that,” cried Anna.

Mrs. Burns kissed her cheek and went on.

“But your grandfather was ambitious. He had great business talent, which was cramped and of little avail in the old country, so he resolved to come to America and build up a fortune here. My husband was afraid to make his first venture burdened with a family. None but very enterprising men left home for this new country in those days; and few of them ever took their families—it was considered too hazardous.

“I and the boy were left behind. It was a great struggle, for he loved us dearly. I know he loved us with all his heart—nothing will ever convince me that he did not. He divided his property, leaving us enough to live on for some years; the rest he took with him as capital to aid in any new enterprise that might present itself. I was very lonely after he went. The parting from my husband took away half my life. But for the boy, Anna, I think that I should have died.”

Mrs. Burns was interrupted by two trembling lips upon her cheek, and a broken voice murmured, “Poor, poor grandfather!”

“He wrote me by every vessel during the first year. ‘New York had not answered his speculations,’ he said, but there was an opening for fur dealers in the West, and he was thinking of that very seriously.’

“He went to that great indefinite place called the West, and then his letters came less frequently—not month by month, but yearly, and sometimes not then. Seven years went by, Anna. I had heard nothing of my husband during thirteen months, when a man came to the town where we lived, and told me that he had seen my husband in Philadelphia, where he had established a lucrative business, and was prospering beyond all his expectations. My husband had told him that he had written to England for his wife and child, but had received no answer to his letter. Anna, I had been more than seven years separated from the man I loved better than my own life when this news came. He was waiting for me, he had written, and I had never received his letter. In less than two weeks I had sold out every thing, and was on my way to Liverpool. In two months I landed in New York, after a wretched voyage, which, it seemed to me, would last forever. From New York I went to Philadelphia, and found my husband’s warehouse without trouble. I went in quietly and inquired for him; they told me that he had gone West, and would not be back for months. While I stood, sick at heart, wondering what I should do next, a lady entered the store—one of the handsomest women I ever saw—she was richly dressed, and swept by me like a queen.

“‘No letters, yet?’ she said, addressing the clerk. ‘He promised to write from every station.’

“Yes, madam, here is a letter—two, in fact. Those western mails are so uncertain.”

“She fairly snatched at the letters, tore one open, and then the other. I saw the handwriting. It was my husband’s.

“‘Madam,’ I said, in a low voice, for my throat was husky, ‘who are those letters from? I, too, have friends in the West.’”

She lifted her eyes from the letters, for both were in her hand at once, and turned them on my face.

“‘Poor lady! I was anxious as you are half an hour ago. Who is this letter from? My own husband. He is safe—he is well. I hope you will have good news also. But excuse, me, I must go. These letters will not be half mine till I read them alone. Good-morning!’

“‘Who is that lady?’ I inquired of the clerk, breathless with strange apprehension.

“‘That? Oh! she is Burns’s wife; lately married; an English lady with whom he was in love years ago. She followed him over, I believe—that is, he sent for her. Splendid woman! Don’t you think so?’

“I did not answer. Every thing turned dark around me, and I went out of the store like a blind woman. What was I to do? How could I act? My husband! my husband! Oh, Anna! my heart is sore now, when I think of the anguish which seized upon it then. He was away, or I should have sought him out and demanded why he had dealt with me so treacherously. What had I done that his love and his honor should be taken from me? I knew that both he and that proud lady were in my power. But what was vengeance to a woman who was seeking for love? ‘No,’ I said, in the depths of my desolation; ‘though he gave her up and came back to me to-morrow, through force or fear, it would not be the same man, or the old love. He may have wronged this lady as he has wronged me. She looked too bright and loyal for a guilty woman. Then why should I wound her as I have been wounded? His child she cannot take from me. God help us both!’”

“No wonder you are crying, Anna—I could not cry. But now, now I am getting old, and the very memory of those days makes a child of me. Don’t cry, Anna—don’t cry.”

The old lady’s voice died off into sobs, and her tears came down like rain.

“Oh, grandmother! how sorry I am. But we love you—love you better than all the world.”

“I know it—I know it. You see how much love can spring out of a desert. I could not stay in the same city with that woman. I left Philadelphia. My son was ten years old. He had been delighted with the thoughts of seeing his father; and we had talked our happiness over so often that he seemed a part of my own being. I would have kept the truth from him had that been possible; but it was not—so I told him the truth. His young spirit was terribly aroused, a feeling of sharp resentment possessed him. He could not understand all the legal injustice that had been done us; but he felt for me as no man could have felt. ‘Leave him, mother,’ he said. ‘I am only a little boy, but I will take his place, love you, work for you, worship you. Indeed, indeed I will.’”

Anna was sobbing as if her heart would break. She remembered her father’s parting with his mother when he went to the wars to die. The old lady held her close.

“Hush, darling! He is in heaven!”

“Oh! if we were only with him, all of us—all of us!” Anna cried out.

“In God’s own time, dear. He knows best.”

After a few moments of quiet weeping Mrs. Burns went on.

“We went back to New York. I had a little money, and opened a small store with the name of Burns on the sign. We would not use his name—he had taken it from us.”

“Did not the name of Burns belong to you, grandmother?”

“It was my own mother’s maiden name.”

“Then my——This, I mean your husband, has another name?”

“Yes; he has another name.”

“Do not tell it me, grandmother. I do not want to hate him, or know him. My father did not wish it, or he would have told us.”

“No, your father wished that name buried—and it was. We never mentioned it, but lived for each other. My business supported us and occupied my mind. My boy had a good education, you know that; and a better man than he never breathed. He had the talent of an artist, and, as the most direct way of earning money, learned wood-engraving. Then he married your mother. She was an orphan, pretty and good. I loved her dearly; and when she died, her little children became mine. We all lived together; I gave up my little store, for your father earned money enough to support us. We were content. Indeed, we were happy, in a way; living so close together, loving each other so dearly—how could we help it? Anna, dear, God always brings contentment to the patient worker.”

“Grandmother, I understand; you mean this for me!”

The old lady’s feeble arms tightened around the girl, and she went on.

“Before your father went to the army, here the living was cheaper; and, perhaps, he had some other reason. It was his wish, and I made no opposition. We had a hard life, darling; sometimes we were hungry and cold, too. It came with cruel force on you children; I tried to save you—tried to be all that your father was; but a poor old woman has but little power. Still, still, look back, child, and see how the good Lord has helped us; so many friends—such bright, bright prospects; the boys doing so well. Hark! they are coming. Wipe your eyes, dear, they must not think we have been crying. Here they come, so happy.”

The old woman wiped her tears away and looked toward the door, smiling. Anna caught the sweet infection, and she too looked bright and hopeful when the boys came in clamorous with praises of their new home.

CHAPTER XXII.
A MYSTERIOUS APPOINTMENT.

Mrs. Savage was in a state of continual unhappiness. When a really good-hearted woman swerves from the right path, either from policy or interest, she is sure to be the greatest sufferer of all the parties in interest. She saw her son come in and go out with that restless, dejected air which often follows a great disappointment. He took no interest in his old pursuits; and all the sweet confidence which had existed between the mother and son was swept away from their lives. This sprung mostly out of her own self-consciousness. She knew that her own ruthless influence had broken up the best hope of his young life; and remembering that cruel interview with Anna Burns, would not look her son squarely in the face, or soften his melancholy with sweet caresses, as a good mother loves to give while comforting her son. Horace felt this, and it made him feel still more desolate. He congratulated himself that his mother was ignorant of the humiliating attachment he had formed, and gathered up all the strength of his manhood to meet the life which lay before him divested of half its bloom.

Better than he thought Mrs. Savage understood all this. She saw that it was no capricious liking that her son had to deal with; and, spite of herself, the sweet face of Anna Burns, in its sad, pleading humility, which was, after all, more dignified than pride, would present itself to her memory; and in spite of the intellect which still protested that she had done right, the heart in her bosom rose up against her, and called her a household traitor, an unnatural mother, a hard woman, and some other harsh names, that she would have been glad to forget.

Then there was the certainty that Georgiana Halstead never would be her son’s wife. Mrs. Savage had loved this bright-faced girl with unusual tenderness; and this conviction was a bitter disappointment. Altogether, things were taking an unsatisfactory course with her—and she was a most unhappy woman.

One day when Horace came in from business, and was going, as usual, to his own room, Mrs. Savage called to him with a quiver of suffering in her voice, that made him pause half way up the stairs and turn back.

“Is there any thing the matter, mother?” he said, entering her pretty sitting-room, stiffly, as if he had been a stranger.

Mrs. Savage remembered the time when he would have come in with a laugh, thrown himself on the stool at her feet, and with both arms folded on her lap, told her of any thing that was uppermost in his heart. She sighed heavily, and a weary look of pain came into her eyes.

“Oh, Horace! why is it that we seem so strange to each other?”

“Strange are we? I had not thought of it, mother.”

He was surprised and touched by her manifest unhappiness. Absorbed in his own thoughts, he had scarcely noticed that she was not as cheerful as usual.

“Dear old pet,” he said, making a strained effort at playfulness, “what has come over you? Is it because her inhuman son has been making a wretch of himself? Come, give him a kiss, he is sadly in want of it.”

Mrs. Savage kissed him on the forehead with quivering lips; and flinging herself back in the chair burst into a passion of tears.

The startled son threw his arms around her.

“Why, mother, mother! what is the meaning of this?”

Mrs. Savage, superior woman as she was, answered like the most commonplace female in the world.

“Oh, Horace! I am sure you hate me!”

“Hate you? Why, mother, what have I have done?”

“Nothing! Nothing in the world! It is I that am to blame!”

“But there is no blame between us. If all this is about Georgiana Halstead, do understand, once for all, she does not want me, and never cared for me in the least, only as a playmate and sort of brother. In fact, she is almost engaged to young Gould.”

“I know it, I know it! She told me. Every thing goes wrong! I am the most unhappy woman in the world!”

“Who makes you so unhappy, dear mother?”

She looked at him earnestly through her tears, gave a hysterical sob, and sat upright in her chair, resolute and proud of look as he had seen her of old.

“Horace, do you love that girl, Anna Burns?”

Savage started up, and his face flushed scarlet.

“Mother!”

“I knew all about it almost from the first, Horace.”

“You? And said nothing. That was kind. Is it this which has troubled you so much?”

“Yes, it has troubled me—I am so sorry.”

“Do not reproach me, mother. It is the first time I ever went against what I knew would be your wishes. You are right, there can be no happiness in going beneath our own grade in life; but she seemed so refined, so innocent, and good. I think a wiser man than I ever was would have been interested. I had hoped that this little shame of my life would never reach you or my father.”

“He does not know it; but I do—I do! Tell me, Horace, for you have not answered my question yet. Do you love this girl?”

“I did love her dearly—better than my own life!”

“And now?”

“If you know all, mother, why wound me with that question?”

“Because I wish to know—because I must know.”

“She has the power to give me terrible pain, mother; beyond that I will say nothing.”

“But you did love her?”

“I have said so.”

“And but for her unworthiness would love her yet?”

“We need not speak of what will be. There is misery enough in what is.”

“Sit down, my son, in the old place, at my feet; then turn your eyes away. I do not like you to look at me so. Now say, if this girl were all you first thought her to be, would you marry her?”

“What! against your consent, mother?”

“I did not say that. Ask your own heart, Horace; was the love you felt for this girl such as runs through a man’s whole life; such as leads him to make all sacrifices in its attainment?”

“Yes; if ever a man loved honestly and devotedly I did. But it is all over now.”

“But you are very unhappy?”

“Very.”

“Will you never forget her? Oh, Horace! will the old times never come back to us?”

“I cannot tell, mother. When the heart has been betrayed into giving itself up entirely, the reaction, if it ever comes, must be slow and painful.”

“Horace!”

“Mother!”

“I—I wish to see you happy. My heart aches for you. I would do any thing rather than see you looking so dispirited.”

“But you can do nothing. Yes, yes; I should not say that. Love me, and bear with me awhile; this cannot last forever.”

“With you, perhaps, not; but with me it will last forever. My son, it is your mother who has done this. She is the person you ought to hate. Anna Burns is guiltless as an angel. I, your mother, says this; and you must believe it.”

“Mother, mother! are you getting insane?”

“No, Horace; I heard of this attachment, and condemned it. My pride was wounded, my ambition thwarted. I thought Georgiana loved you, and that this girl had come in her way to cause all sorts of unhappiness. I appealed to her generosity. I told her that nothing on this earth should win our consent to your marriage with her. She told me how young Ward had persecuted her; and I, unwomanly, ungenerous woman that I was, bade her leave you in doubt, that you might be shocked out of your love. She pleaded, she wept, she protested, but gave way at last, and pledged her word to avoid you, and leave the suspicions in your mind to rest there.”

“Oh, mother, mother! this is terrible!”

“I know it, boy; but it is all true. God forgive me!”

Savage was standing before his mother, white as death, but with a glow of deep thoughtfulness in his eyes.

“And she is innocent?”

“As an angel, I do believe. Innocent even of guessing the evil thoughts you had of her. The worst she dreamed of was, that you supposed her capable of marrying that young scapegrace.”

“Thank heaven for that! She will not have felt the insult so deeply! But I was cruel with her, the innocent darling.”

“No, it was I who was most cruel. I, who forbade her to explain; I, who left her, broken-hearted, to struggle against her honest affection, and the shame of which she was unconscious. Can you ever forgive me, Horace?”

“Forgive you! mother? Is that a question which you should ask of your son? The question is, will Anna Burns ever forgive me?”

“She will—she must. I will go to her. I will humble myself as is befitting one who has given way to her pride cruelly as I have. But first, Horace, say that you will forget this, and love me in the old way?”

Bright tears were in those fine eyes, the sympathetic mouth worked with emotion. That look of yearning entreaty went to the son’s heart; he knelt by her side, kissed her hands, her forehead, and the eyes which were still heavy with repentant dew.

“Forget it? Oh, mother! how can I forget this nobility of soul which gives back the bloom to my life. It was love for me that made you, for a time, less than yourself. That I will forget.”

“And love me dearly, as of old?”

“Indeed, and indeed, I will.”

“This love of Anna Burns must not make you forget me.”

The lady said this with a piteous smile. It was hard to give him up.

“Mother, do you love my father less because of me?”

“No, no! How should I?”

“Love, like mercy, is not strained, mother. The heart that can feel it at all in its perfection, grows larger and grander with each new object of affection.”

The mother’s face became luminous with one of those smiles which flood all the features with sunshine. She fell forward upon her son’s bosom, sighing away the last remnants of her unhappiness.

“God bless you, my son! I will love Anna Burns dearly for your sake!”

“May I go to her now, mother?”

“Not yet. Wait a little till I have prepared your father. He knows nothing. When you see her again it must be with full authority.”

“You are right, mother. I am happy and I can wait!”

A servant opened the door, bringing in a card.

“Mr. Gould—what can he want of me, I wonder?” exclaimed the lady, looking at the card.

“I will leave you to find out,” answered Horace, kissing his mother’s hand.

Scarcely had the son disappeared from one door, when old Mr. Gould came in through another. He was grave and quiet, not to say stern, in his manner toward the lady who came forward to receive him. With that old-fashioned formality which is so pleasant in a gray-headed man, he led Mrs. Savage back to the seat she had left, and drew a chair close to it. Then he began conversing with her in a low, earnest voice. She heard him at first with a little surprise; then her interest deepened, the hot color came and went in her face; and more than once she broke out into exclamations that seemed half pleasure, half disappointment. When the old gentleman arose she gave him her hand, which he bowed over with a reverence which was not without grace.

“I rejoice that you come too late,” she said, smiling upon him.

“And so do I. Such things bring back one’s old trust in human nature.”

“I, at least, ought to be thankful that all the atonement in my power was made in time,” she said, graciously.

“You will all be punctual. I am an old business man, remember, and shall expect you at the moment.”

“You can depend on us.”

They shook hands at the door with great cordiality, and the old man smiled as he went down the steps.

CHAPTER XXIII.
AN ENGAGEMENT.

The Burns family had moved into that pretty cottage, and were all assembled in the little dining-room which opened on the flower-garden, and from which it was festooned in by a drapery of vines, which filled the balconies with delicious green shadows. There was nothing very splendid about this new home; but it was, for all that, the prettiest little place you ever set eyes upon—and the scene within that dining-room a picture in itself. There sat the old lady, at the head of the table, with a pretty china tea-set before her, and the whitest of linen cloths falling from beneath the tray toward her lap. Opposite her sat Anna Burns, looking pale and sweetly sad, for the heartache never left her for a moment; but with a smile always ready for little Joseph, when he told her of some episode in his active young life, or boasted, in his bright, childish way, of the papers he had sold. Robert listened to him with a paternal smile on his young lips; and the dear old lady had a gentle word to say with every cup of tea that her little hand served out so daintily.

While they were occupied at the tea-table, Georgiana Halstead came up the garden-walk, treading lightly as an antelope, and smiling to herself only as the happy can smile. She snatched at some of the flowers as she passed, and came up to the window forming them into a bouquet, with which she knocked lightly on the glass.

Anna arose from the table, and went out to meet her friend with a wan smile on her lips, which seemed but the shadow of that which beamed over Georgie’s whole face.

“Come this way, Anna, I have something to tell you. Out here, where this pyramid of white roses can hide us from the window. I would not have them think there was any thing particular for the world.”

The two girls went down the walk, and sheltered themselves behind the rose-bushes as they talked together.

“Anna, I have something to tell you. Don’t look frightened; it’s nothing bad—at least I don’t think it is; but—but things will turn out so. You know about young Mr. Gould, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes! He has been so good to our Robert. I have seen him, too.”

“Don’t you think him very—that is, rather handsome?”

“Indeed, I do—very handsome.”

“I am glad; that is, I thought you would think so.”

Here Georgie began to blush, and pluck at a branch of the rose-bush with great energy. Anna saw that the secret, whatever it was, struggled in her throat; and, with that gentle tact which is the very essence of refinement, went on with the conversation.

“Mr. Gould has been so very considerate about our Robert. It was only yesterday he doubled his weekly pay,” she said.

“Oh! he’s generous as a prince! Look here, Anna.”

Georgie took off her glove, and extended a little hand which blushed to the finger-tips as it exhibited a ring, in which was a single diamond limpid as water, and large as a hazel-nut.

“Why, that is the engagement-finger!” exclaimed Anna, surprised.

“Yes, it is the engagement-finger. He put it on!”

Anna turned white as snow.

“He! Who?—Mr. Savage?”

She spoke with sharp agony, forgetting even that young Gould had been mentioned.

“Mr. Savage? No, indeed! He never cared a fig for me. This ring—a beauty, isn’t it?—was put on my finger last night by Mr. Gould.”

“And are you really engaged?”

“That is exactly what I came to tell you. No one else has been told as yet; but I could not exist without having some one wish me joy—so I came to you. Papa and dear old grandma will give consent this morning.”

“Are you certain of that?” asked Anna, with a sigh.

“Oh, yes; every thing is right there. Asking is only a form.”

“I—I am glad, very glad,” said Anna; but her voice trembled, and she felt ready to burst into tears.

Georgiana looked at her earnestly. She had a vague idea that something had gone wrong between her and Savage, but was all in the dark regarding the particulars.

“But you look so sorrowful, Anna. I thought to give you pleasure.”

“I am not sorrowful—at least not very. About you and Mr. Gould I am glad as glad can be; indeed, indeed I am! Only you know one gets a sorrowful look after—after so much trouble.”

“But your troubles are all over now.”

“Are they? Oh, yes! we are very well off. You don’t know the difference. Sometimes, when I awake in the morning and see such hosts of leaves trembling about my window, it seems unbelievable. There is a taria that has climbed up the balconies to the third story, leaving wreaths of purple blossoms all the way. Sometimes it seems impossible that such things can be for us.”

“But they are, and better things are coming, I feel sure of it; only get that sad look off your face, Anna. I cannot bear to be so happy, and see you going about like a wounded bird. Now kiss me, dear, and then we will go tell grandma.”

Anna kissed the sweet mouth bent to hers, and the two girls went into the house. One smiling like a June morning, the other smiling, too, but with a look of suppressed tears about the eyes. Mrs. Burns had left the breakfast-table, and was waiting for their visitor in the little parlor, framed in by the open window like one of those delicious old German home-pictures, that seem so real that you feel the poetry in them, but cannot for the life of you, tell where it lies. She came forward to meet Georgiana, with her hand held out, ready for the good news so eloquent in that beautiful young face.

“I know it is something pleasant,” she said, smoothing the pretty hand that lay in hers, warm and fluttering; “tell me, dear.”

“Yes, grandma, I come for that; but—but how to begin.”

She laughed sweetly, blushed, and looked appealingly to Anna. The secret was harder to tell than she thought for.

“Grandmother, she is going to be married; only it is a secret with us, remember. It is to young Mr. Gould.”

“Young Mr. Gould!” repeated the old lady. “What, the young gentleman who came here? No, it was to the other house.”

“Yes, grandma,” said Georgie, smiling afresh amid the crimson of her blushes, “I—I am sure you like him.”

“Indeed, I do,” answered the old lady. “Why should any one doubt it?”

She spoke seriously, and with a certain intonation which surprised both the girls.

“And he thinks so much of you,” cried Georgie. “As for Robert, I really believe no brother ever loved a little fellow better.”

“He is very kind,” answered the old lady, and, for the first time in their lives, those two girls saw a shade of sarcasm on that dear old face. It was very faint, but they did not like it.

“I—I am almost afraid that you do not like him,” faltered Georgie.

“It would be unjust if I did not,” answered the old lady, sadly. “He was not to blame.”

“Not to blame, grandma?” repeated Georgie, amazed.

“Did I say that? Well, of course, he is not to blame for any thing, especially for loving our own home-angel!”

“There, that is a dear, blessed, darling old grandma again! Why, you haven’t kissed me yet, or wished me joy, or any thing?”

“But I will—I do. There!”

The soft lips of the old lady were pressed to Georgie’s forehead, those old arms folded her close.

“God bless you, dear! God forever bless both you and him!”

“Thank you, grandma—thank you a thousand times; that was just what I wanted to make my joy complete. Ah! here comes Robert, with his face all in a glow. What! are those flowers for me?”

“I should like to make them prettier; but time is up, and I must be off. Here is some of grandma’s rose-geraniums, and all the blossoms from my own heliotrope. Good-by, Miss Georgie. Young Mr. Gould raised my salary last week. Isn’t he splendid.”

Georgiana caught his face between her two hands and kissed him on the spot. It would be difficult to decide which of those two young faces was the rosiest when those hands were withdrawn. The truth was, if Robert had an earthly divinity it was the young lady who had just kissed him. So he went away with a glow upon his face, and a warmer one in his heart, wondering if there was another boy in all Philadelphia who could have been so honored, and wishing the whole earth were covered with rose-geraniums, heliotrope, cape jasmines, and blush-roses, that he might scatter them under her feet and catch the perfume as she walked over them.

Georgie, rather ashamed of herself, went home, wondering what it was which gave that sad, wistful look to Anna Burns’s eyes; and coming generously out of her own happiness, far enough to wish that every thing had gone right with young Savage, that Anna might have been married on the same day with herself. She wondered if nothing could be done to bring this about. Why was it that Savage had said nothing to her of late? It saddened her to think that Anna was given up to such depression of spirits when she was so happy.

“But it will not last,” she said to herself. “Only think how miserable I was only a little while ago. Why, it was like wrenching at my own heart when young Savage came with his confidence, and wanted me to help him. But there was a difference. He did not love me, and he did love her. I wasn’t to go on adoring him after that, it would have been wrong; and, after all, I wasn’t exactly the girl to degrade myself in that way. Now I really do wonder how it happened that I cared for him so much. Certainly he’s handsome and gentlemanly; but Mr. Gould—— Dear me! it’s fortunate that I’m alone, or people might read what I think of him in my face; but, as Robert says, he is splendid.”

Georgiana went home with such thoughts as these fluttering through her head, like humming-birds among roses. In the hall she met Miss Eliza, who seemed in a great flutter of excitement.

“Come in here,” said the spinster, leading the way into a half-darkened drawing-room. “What do you think has happened? Old Mr. Gould is here closeted with mother. What could it be about? Have you any idea, Georgie? Just feel my hands how they tremble. Isn’t it thrilling when a young girl like me feels that two people are settling a destiny of love for her in a close room? Tell me, dear, which is it do you think? Has the elder gentleman struggled against the passion in his bosom, and resigned me, with the wrench of the heart which will be felt through his whole life, to the intense adoration of his nephew—or has he come to plead for himself? Heavens, how the doubt agitates me!”

“Is old Mr. Gould with grandmamma now?” inquired Georgie, glad that the half light concealed the expression of her face.

“Yes, yes! Hark! he opens the door; his tread is in the upper hall—on the stairs. It comes nearer. Support me, Georgiana.”

Miss Eliza curved downward, and hid her face on Georgie’s shoulder.

“Oh, Georgie! do not let him come in. This emotion—this wild, young heart will betray itself; and he must not know how I adore him.”

“Which?” questioned Georgie.

“Which—which? Why, the one that has proposed. How can you ask such questions? Thank heaven! this heart has strength and breadth, and—and capacities; but what is the use of talking to a child to whom love is, as yet, a mystery folded in the bud—while with me it is a full-blown flower? Ah, Georgie! congratulate me.”

Again Miss Eliza threw herself slantwise on to Georgie’s neck, and heaved a billowy sigh.

“Oh, Aunt Eliza, please! you are so heavy,” pleaded the poor girl.

“Heavy! When my whole being is one bright wave of bliss; when this great love rises, full-fledged, from my heart, like a bird of paradise, with all its golden plumage full of sunlight. Go, child, go! this full soul must seek sympathy elsewhere. I will seek my mother, kneel at her feet, and seek the maternal blessing, while she tells me which it is.”

Away Miss Eliza sailed into her mother’s room, which she entered with clasped hands.

“Oh, mother! have you no news for me?” she cried, falling on her knees before the old lady, who would have been surprised, if any thing about Miss Eliza could surprise her—“spare these blushes, and tell me at once.”

“Well, Eliza, it can make no difference; though, perhaps, it would have been best to have consulted with your brother first.”

“Then it is positively true; he is to be consulted; that point is settled. Oh, my heart! my heart! Forgive me, mother. You said that he was to be consulted; just have pity on a poor young creature, who sees her fondest hopes vibrating in the balance, and tell me all. Come now.”

“There is not much to tell, Eliza; nothing, indeed, which you must not have expected.”

“I did—I did.”

“Mr. Gould came to ask my consent.”

“Yes, yes. Go on.”

“How impatient you are, Eliza! He came to ask my consent to the marriage of his nephew with Georgiana.”

Miss Eliza fell forward, with her face in the old lady’s lap. She shook her head violently, her shoulders heaved, and smothered sobs broke out of all this commotion, like gusts of wind in a storm. All at once she started up and pushed the hair back from her face.

“I see—I see,” she cried, “he has done this to clear the path—to get rid of a dangerous rival. Noble man! Splendid diplomacy! How could I have doubted him? Dear mother, do not look so astonished. I understand all this better than you can. Wait a little—wait a little, and you will know all.”

She arose, after delivering this mysterious speech, and went into her own room, where the pendant cupid was vibrating with sudden spasms of motion, as a current of wind swept over it from an open window.

  Do.n Miss Eliza sat in her cozy chair, and, clasping her hands, looked upward, murmuring—

“Yes, yes; I understand it all. He saw the devotion of this young man, and sought to evade rather than oppose the result. He knew that such feelings as absorbed that young heart would endanger his own domestic peace when we were once married; for how could this young man look on me, the happy and fondly cherished bride of another, and not allow his feelings of disappointment and regret to break forth? Besides, there must have been great dread of his success—not that Mr. Gould, the elder, need have feared. My soul always lifted itself above mere youth and good looks; but he was wise to sweep this young man from his path. Poor Georgiana! compelled to take up with the rejected suitor of another! Of course, it will be a marriage of convenience—the bridegroom will always have his memories; but I will keep out of the way; far be it from me to render him unhappy by forcing the contrast between what he has lost and what he has married upon him. As his uncle’s wife I will be forbearing, generous, and dignified. If he should ever attempt to allude to the hopes that his uncle has just quenched by this masterly stroke of policy, I will assert all the womanly grandeur of my nature, and wither him with a look half of pity, half of indignation.”

Here Miss Eliza leaned back in her chair, folded both hands over her bosom, and, closing her eyes, fell into one of those soft, sweet reveries, which poets have called “Love’s Young Dream;” her feet rested on the ottoman cushion which usually performed a prominent part in these solitary tableaux. The cupid sailed to and fro over her head; the crimson cushions of her chair would have reflected the color on her cheeks but for a counter tint, a little less vivid, but quite as permanent, which baffled what might have been an artistic effect. In this position we leave Miss Eliza rich in expectations, which no disappointment could extinguish.

Meantime, Georgie ran up to her grandmother’s room, threw herself into those outstretched arms and began to cry, one would think just to be hushed and comforted with those soft words, and soft kisses, which came from the old lady’s lips like dew upon a flower.

“What did he say, grandmamma?”

“Every thing that was sweet and kind, darling!”

“And you told him——”

“That I would ask my grandchild if she loved this young man dearly with all her heart and soul.”

“With all her heart, and her soul of souls, tell him she said that, grandmamma.”

“And that she loves no one else?”

“No one, grandmamma, in this wide, wide world.”

“Shall I say that she has never loved any one else, dear?”

Georgie’s face was crimson when she lifted her head and looked clearly into that rather anxious face.

“He will not ask that, because I told him all about it myself.”

The old lady kissed that beautiful, honest face.

“That is right, my dear.”

“And he did not care in the least; said the first love of a girl was usually half fancy and half nonsense; that a heart was sometimes like fruit, which is never really ripe till the frost gives it a bloom; and a good deal more which I cannot repeat, but love to remember.”

“Then I have nothing to do but ask God to bless you both!”

“But you have told me nothing. Is the old gentleman pleased?”

“Yes, delighted. I never saw him so well satisfied in my life.”

“You! Why, grandmamma, did you ever see him before?”

The old lady smiled, but answered nothing to the purpose. She only said, “Yes, indeed, he is greatly pleased; and says that there is not a girl in Philadelphia that he would have preferred to my little granddaughter.”

“Did he say that? How very kind of him! But, grandmamma, what do you think Aunt Eliza——”

“Ah, yes! I know, my dear. She is so apt to make these mistakes; but I have told her.”

“Oh, I am glad of that! Did she want to kill me?”

“Far from that, Georgie; but we will not talk of her. It makes me sad.”

“But you will not think of any thing which can do that; for I want you to be splendid when, when——”

“When you are married?”

“Yes, grandmamma.”

After the blushes had left Georgie’s face, a shade of sadness stole over it, which the old lady observed.

“What is the matter, darling?”

“Nothing, grandmamma. Only I am so sorry for Anna Burns.”

“Indeed! What about her?”

“She seems so unhappy!”

“Why?”

“Ah! I had forgotten. It is not my place to talk about Anna Burns; perhaps she is not so very unhappy, after all. Only—only I do wish somebody who knows how would comfort her; that is, advise with her.”

“What if I call upon them in their new house, Georgie? How would that do?”

“Splendid! I am sure she would tell you every thing. When will you go?”

“Well, suppose we say to-morrow evening?”

“That is capital! I will go with you and talk with Mrs. Burns, while you take up Anna.”

“That will do, perhaps. I shall invite a few friends to visit them in their new house. What if we give them a surprise party?”

“Oh, how delightful!”

“Invite all their friends, and give them a little feast!”

“Oh, grandmamma! they haven’t but one friend in the world beside us and the Savage family; and I’m afraid it would be unpleasant for them to meet.”

“Still we must invite them. I will send a note to Mrs. Savage, and ask her to bring Horace.”

“It might do; but I should not dare myself.”

“Very likely. So leave that to me. Mistakes in an old woman are soon forgiven!”

“Yes, I will leave it to you. Nobody ever did things so nicely.”

“Now about this other woman, for I suppose it is a woman whom you speak of as their friend?”

“Yes, of course, it is a woman. Such a strange creature, too, I’m sure you would be surprised to see her, knowing how good she is. When Anna and her grandmother were so very poor, she let the rent run on, month after month, never asking for it, but growing kinder and kinder every day. More than that, she seemed to find out by magic when they had nothing to eat in the house, and sent up money and a wholesome meal when they were almost crying with hunger.”

“Georgiana,” said Mrs. Halstead, “that was a good woman. Invite her.”

“But she is rough as a chestnut-bur.”

“No matter.”

“And used to scold them sometimes.”

“No matter.”

“She takes in slop-work.”

“All the better.”

“And fries her own dinner on the little stove in her room. I have heard it simmering twenty times.”

“But when these good people needed it, she divided her dinner with them.”

“Indeed, she did; though the agent was tormenting her about the rent all the time; and she is heavily in debt to him now.”

“Georgiana, invite that woman—I admire her. I respect her, coarse or not, ugly or handsome, I respect her.”

“And so do I, grandmamma. Only I thought it best to tell you. Besides, she dresses so, and has such coarse hair, that anybody but you might not see the good through it all—Mrs. Savage particularly.”

“She would. Mrs. Savage is a noble woman.”

“I am glad to hear you say that for Anna’s sake.”

“And this person you speak of is a noble woman; such people always get together somehow.”

“I hope so. Of course, if you say it.”

“There now, dear, go to this woman and give our invitation. Here is money for the entertainment. Let it be perfect. She will help you, I dare say. If any thing is left, she must keep it, understand. Now good-morning. Go at once.”

Georgie ran up stairs for her bonnet, and was soon in the old tenement-house talking with the landlady, whom she found hard at work, with a clothes-basket half full of unfinished work by her side, and a heap of sailor’s jackets piled up on the table close at hand. She had a well-worn press-board lying across her lap, and was pressing a stubborn seam upon it with a heavy flat-iron, upon which she leaned resolutely with one elbow, while she held the seam open with two fingers of her other hand. This was hot work, and the perspiration was pouring off her face as she worked.

“Yes,” she said, with curt good humor, “hard at work as ever; hot though, and dragging on the strength; especially when one sets at it steady from daylight till eleven o’clock at night.”

“But why do you work so hard, there is only yourself to support?”

“That’s what every lady says; but, law, what do they know about it? Debt cries louder than children; they do give up sometimes, but agents never do, especially them as let tenement-houses for men who are too refined to crush out the poor with their own hands, but take the money without asking how it has been wrung out of our hard earnings, piling the extra per centage—which pays the agent for oppressing his tenants—on us. Then they talk about heavy taxes, as if we did not pay them and all the rest with our hard work. When the Common Council, and the State, or Congress, put taxes on them, they sit still in their comfortable parlors, and meet it all by raising the rents, which we pay like this.”

The woman swept the perspiration from her forehead with one hand, which she held out, all moist and trembling from the pressure it had given to the iron. The front finger was honey-combed by the point of her coarse needle; the palm was coarse and hard from constant toil.

“These are tax-marks,” she said, bitterly; “some of our people don’t understand it—but I do; for, poor or not, I will take the newspaper. It’s oppression—that’s what it is. If the agent would have been a little easy with me, I might have done a world of good in this identical house; but it wasn’t in me to turn a family out of doors when they couldn’t pay up to the minute; and so, in trying to save them, I got in debt. If he turns me out—and he threatened that this very morning—who will stand between him and the poor families in my rooms? I tell you what, Miss, it wasn’t to make money I took the house, but to keep it respectable and help my poor fellow-creturs along. There never was any profit in it; and now I’m likely to be turned out myself. It’s hard, miss—it is hard!”

“Indeed, it does seem very cruel; but I suppose the man who has money can be a tyrant if he likes, in spite of the law. I’ll talk with grandmamma about this; perhaps she can help you. Just now I come to ask, that is, to invite you, to join us in a little party we are going to give the Burns family.”

“What! they give a party?”

“No—we; that is, grandmamma and a friend or two are going to surprise them.”

“Big-bugs—that is, gentlemen and ladies?”

“Yes, I—I believe so,” said Georgie, with great humility.

“Then I can’t go—I shouldn’t feel at home.”

“But I want your help in getting things ready. Grandmamma has left every thing for you and I to arrange. Here is plenty of money, but I have no idea how to go about spending it.”

“Oh! if that’s what you want of me, I’m on hand. Haven’t had a play spell these ten years. It’ll do me good.”

“I own it will—can you spare the time now?”

“I’ll put on my things right off,” cried the landlady, standing her press-board in a corner, and planting the hot iron in a safe place. “Just wait a minute while I comb out my hair and put on another dress.”

With this, the good woman let down a hank of coarse hair, and hatcheled it vigorously with a coarse horn-comb; then she gathered it up in a hard twist, and proceeded to change her dress, for which she substituted a gorgeous delaine, and a blanket-shawl warmed up with stripes of scarlet.

“Now,” she said, tying the strings of an immense straw bonnet, that stood up from her face like a horse-shoe, “I’m ready for any thing you want of me.”

Georgie arose, took up her parasol of silk point-lace and carved ivory, of which she felt a little ashamed, and followed the landlady out.

“There is one thing,” she said, when they reached the side-walk, “which you must help me arrange; while we are making preparations in the house, they must be got away.”

“Oh! I’ll mange that easy enough,” answered the woman. “I’ll tell them that I am obliged to go out, and can’t spare the time from my work. They’ll both offer to come round and help me through. It wont be the first time—just leave that to me. I think they’ll like to sit in the old room; some of their things are there yet.”

This being decided on, Georgie and her companion entered upon the business in hand with great energy; and the young girl went home at dusk perfectly satisfied with the progress of things, as regarded the surprise party.

CHAPTER XXIV.
CONCLUSION.

The next day old Mrs. Burns sat in the little family-room up stairs, quite alone, for Anna had gone round to their old home to see their kind friend, and the boys proceeded to their work, as usual, immediately after breakfast. She was reading; for the necessity of constant toil had been taken from her, and with this pleasant home, many of her old lady-like wants had come back, asking for a place in her life.

So the old lady sat reading near the window, looking neat and tranquil, as if care had never visited her. Quantities of soft, fine muslin were folded over her bosom, and softer lace fell over her calm, old forehead, from which the hair was parted in all its snowy whiteness. Her dress of black alpaca, bright as silk, and of voluminous fulness, swept down from the crimson cushions of the easy-chair, and covered the stool on which her foot rested. She formed a lovely picture of old age, sitting in that cool light, with the leaves twinkling their shadows around her, and softening the whole picture into perfect quiet.

As she sat thus absorbed in her book, the gate opened, and an old man came up the garden-walk. She lifted her head and looked out, but her glasses were on, and she could only see some figure moving through the flowers with dreamy indistinctness. Then she heard the door open, and a step in the hall—a step that made her heart leap till the muslin stirred like snow on her bosom.

Who could it be? Not one of the boys, the step was too heavy for that; perhaps, that is, possibly, it might be young Savage, coming to explain conduct that she much feared was breaking poor Anna’s heart. The possibility that it might be him kept her still. After neglecting them so long, she would not compromise Anna’s pride, by appearing eager to meet him; so she sat, with book in hand, gazing wistfully at the door through her spectacles.

The door opened slowly, and old Mr. Gould stood on the threshold, where he paused a moment gazing on her.

The old woman answered the gaze with a half-frightened look through her spectacles, then drew them slowly off, as if that could help her vision, and stood up.

“Mary!” said the old man, coming toward her. “Mary!”

The old woman sat down again, helpless and trembling.

“Mary, will you not speak to me?”

“Yes, James, yes. I—I wish to speak, but—but I cannot.”

“And why, Mary? What have I done? What did I ever do that should make you hate and avoid me so?”

“Hate! I never hated you, James. At the worst, I never hated you!”

“But you left me—hid yourself; kept my son from me all his life. How could you find the heart to do that?”

The old lady sat upright in her chair; a faint red came into her face—she trembled from head to foot.

“You speak as if I had done wrong, James; as if you were an innocent man.”

“I speak as I feel, Mary—as I am. What fault had I committed which warranted the separation of a lifetime?”

He questioned her almost sternly; but there was a quiver of wounded tenderness in his voice which made that gentle old bosom swell with gathering tears.

“Was it nothing,” she said, faltering, in spite of herself, “that you left me and married another woman?”

“Mary Gould, are you a sane woman?”

“I saw her with my own eyes; heard her speak; watched her when she read your letters. Nothing short of that would have driven me from you.”

“You saw all this? When—how?”

“At your warehouse in H——. She kissed your letter; she told me that you were her husband—all the time I held our boy by the hand; he heard it. What could I do? Arraign my husband before the courts—disgrace him? Kill an innocent woman, perhaps? I loved you too well for that; so went away with my child. I wished myself dead, but even wretched women cannot die when they wish. I was young and healthy; grief tortured me, but it could not quite kill the strong life in my bosom. I had the boy, and struggled for his sake. We went away into another State, and in the heart of a great city buried ourselves. I gave you up. I gave up your name and worked on through life alone. But God kept my son, and gave me grandchildren; the wound in my life was almost healed. Why come at this late day to shake the last sands of a hard life with old memories? I have forgiven you long ago, James—long ago.”

The old man listened to her patiently. Once or twice he started and checked some eager words as they sprang to his lips; but he restrained himself and heard her through. Then he reached forth a trembling hand and drew a chair close to her side, bending toward her as he seated himself.

“Mary, did you believe this base thing of me?”

“Believe it? God help me, I knew it!”

“Mary Gould, it is false, every word of it. I have never loved any woman but you. I never had, and never will have another wife.”

The little old woman held out her two hands in pitiful appeal.

“Oh, James, don’t! I am an old woman and cannot bear it. Only ask me to forgive you, and I will. Indeed, I will.”

“Mary, my poor deceived wife, there is nothing between us to forgive. I do not know how this terrible idea has been fastened on your mind; but, as God is my judge, no husband was ever more faithful to a wife than I have been to you.”

He held her two hands firmly. She lifted her eyes to his and found them full of tears.

“James, James, is it I that have done wrong?” The old woman fell down upon her knees before him, and pressed her two withered hands on his bosom. “Have I done wrong—and is it you who must forgive me? Oh, my husband! I am so thankful that it is me!”

He lifted her back to the easy-chair, and drew that sweet, old face, with its crown of snowy hair, to his bosom; his tears fell over her; his hands shook like withered leaves as they tenderly folded her to his heart.

She believed in his truth; and that sweet, solemn love, which is so beautiful in old age, filled her heart with a joy that no young bride may even hope to know.

“We are old and close to the end of our lives, Mary; but God has given us to each other again, and the best part of our existence will be spent together.”

“But I have cast away our youth, trampled down your mid-age; hid our son away from you, and now he is dead—he is dead!” she cried, with anguish, the more piteous because her utterance was choked by the tremor of old age.

“But you have suffered more than I have, for, during all this time till the war commenced, I thought both you and my son dead; while you, knowing me alive, thought me a guilty man. Poor Mary! your unhappiness has been greater than mine.”

“Thank God for that!” she said, meekly.

“And now it must be my pleasure to lead you down the path which is lost in the valley and shadow. You need me now more than ever, and I need you, Mary, as we grow weaker and older; such companionship as you and I can give each other becomes the sweetest and most precious thing in life. Do not cry, Mary; but rather let me see if the old smile lives for me yet.”

She looked up, and the wrinkles about her mouth softened into the sweetest expression you ever saw on a human face.

“God has been very good to us,” she said; “but for our son’s death I could, indeed, smile. Now I feel as if I had robbed you of him.”

“Never think that again. But remember that it is a good thing to have loved ones waiting for us on the other side. I shall see our son; of that be certain.”

“Yes, yes, we shall both see him; and his children—have you seen them?”

“Yes; the lad Robert is with me—a fine little fellow.”

“Anna, too?”

“Pretty as you were long ago, and I think as good.”

“But Joseph, dear little Joseph, you must love him above all; he is the very image of his father.”

“I have seen him, too. I saw you all sitting in a picture together.”

“And recognized us?”

“At the first glance; for then I knew that my wife was alive. More—after our son went to the war, he wrote to me, told me that his mother was living, and besought me to find her, should he fall, and save his family from want. He gave no name but his own—no address; but referred me to a gentleman in New York, who would tell me where to find you. This letter was sent from the army, and met with the usual delays before it reached me. Only two days before I saw you in that picture did I know of your existence. I telegraphed to the person who held your address, and was answered that he was away from home. Then I saw you for that one moment, and you were lost to me again. I searched for you for days to no avail. Then I went to New York; the man I sought had gone to Europe. I followed him, learned the name you have borne, and where you could be found—learned that our grandchild was already under my care. But I am an old man, Mary, and have learned how to wait. Did you know that this house is mine—that I sent you here; that Anna is my friend; and that little Joseph has made a small fortune in selling me papers?”

“I know that I am this moment the happiest old woman that ever lived.”

“I am glad of that. If I can help it, Mary, you shall never be unhappy again. We will enter on our second childhood with tranquil hearts; knowing so well what loneliness is, we shall feel the value of loving companionship as few old people ever did. Now tell me how it was that the terrible mistake which separated us arose.”

She told him all, exactly as she had related the facts to Anna only a short time before.

“I can understand now,” he said, thoughtfully. “This lady was my brother’s wife; he had just come over from England, and took the western trip with me. The poor young man never came back, but died in the wilderness. It was his wife you saw; his letters she was reading.”

“Oh, foolish, wicked woman that I was, so readily to believe ill of you!” cried the old lady.

“Do not blame yourself. The evidence, false as it was, might have deceived any one. You did not know that my brother was in the country, for he came on me unannounced. It was a natural mistake, and you acted nobly. It has cost us dear, but we will not spend the precious time left to us in regretting it.”

“Thank heaven! I had no bitterness; it was for your sake I hid myself.”

“Bitterness! No, no! It was for me—and when you thought me unworthy. I shall never forget that. Now let us put all these things aside and think only of the present.”

“Oh! that is so beautiful!” she said, looking around, but turning her eyes on him at last. “After all, James, you do not look so very old.”

He laughed gayly, and would have smoothed her hair in the old fashion, but feeling the lace of her cap, desisted, ending off his laugh with a little sigh, which she heard with a sad sort of feeling, as if the ghost of her youth were passing by.

“This is a pleasant place,” said the old man, looking out into the balcony, where gleams of sunshine were at play with the leaves. “Do you know, Mary, I have never seen a place that seemed so like home since we parted in England.”

She smiled pleasantly, and holding out her withered little hand, and blushing like a girl, said,

“Then stay here with us. It is so pleasant here.”

“And my old castle is so gloomy. Yes, Mary, I am coming home to help take care of the grandchildren. But I must go now, or they will catch me here earlier than I wish. Yes, yes; it is a pleasant little home.”

He went out suddenly, the old lady thought with tears in his eyes, and she stole into the balcony to watch him as a girl of twenty might. She saw him pick a rosebud and put it into his buttonhole, smiling to himself all the while. Then she stole away and went into her bedroom; and there Anna found her, when she came home, upon her knees, and with such benign joy on her face that the young girl closed the door, and went off on tiptoe, as if she had disturbed an angel.

After awhile the old lady came out; but judging of her husband’s wishes by that intuition which needs no instruction, she said nothing of his visit, but waited for him to explain, as best pleased him.

“Grandmother,” said Anna, “you and I are wanted at the old house. Our friend is driven beyond any thing with her work, but must go out especially this afternoon. Will you go with me and help her sewing forward. I have set out the boy’s supper.”

The old lady consented at once, and put on that soft woollen shawl with a smile, knowing who it was that had given it to her. It was rather warm for the season, but she would not have gone without it for the world.

That night there was a great commotion in the cottage, in which the boys joined, in high excitement, without understanding any thing about it, except that a surprise was intended for grandmamma and Anna. A long table was spread in the dining-room; china, glass, and silver, unknown to the house before, glittered and sparkled upon it; flowers glowed up from the sparkling glass, and flung their rich shadows across the snow-white tablecloth; fruit lay bedded in the flowers, filling the vases with a rich variety, which Robert and Joseph kept rearranging every instant. Then came plates full of plump little birds, partridges, and so many dainties, that the boys got tired of naming them. But when the table was entirely spread, the effect was so magnificent that they danced around it, clapping their hands in an ecstasy of delight. Up stairs the rooms were radiant with flowers, and a rich perfume came up from the gardens, scenting every thing as with the breath of paradise.

Scarcely were the rooms ready when the company came in. First, Georgie greeted her stately grandmother, Miss Eliza, and a fine-looking gentleman, whom she introduced as her father. Then came another stately-looking person, who walked in with Mrs. Savage on his arm; and after them appeared Horace Savage, natural and pleasant as ever, chatting merrily with young Gould, with whom he walked up the garden arm-in-arm, while Georgie was peeping at them from one of the balconies. When these persons were all assembled, our landlady of the tenement-house proclaimed her determination of going home at once and bringing Mrs. Burns and Anna up to their surprise. Just twenty minutes from the time she left the door they were to turn every light in the house down, except that in the hall. Robert and Joseph were to take their posts in the parlors and take charge of the chandeliers. In short, every thing was ready, and the little parlors took a festive aspect exhilarating to behold.

Just as Mrs. Burns and Anna came in sight of the house, following the landlady, who insisted on seeing them home, old Mr. Gould joined them, and quietly gave his arm to the old lady. Anna was a little surprised, but they were close by the gate, and she had not much time to notice it.

“The boys have got tired of waiting and have gone out,” she said, regretfully. “I wish we had come home before dark.”

They were in the hall now, the house was still as death. There seemed something strange about this, which made Anna look anxious as she took off her things.

“Walk in,” she said, opening the parlor door, through which Mr. Gould led the old lady. That instant a blaze of light broke over the room, revealing bewildering masses of flowers, and a group of smiling faces all turned upon the new-comers.

Robert and Joseph jumped down, after turning on the light, and softly clapped their hands, unable to restrain the exuberance of their spirits. But Anna saw nothing of this. A voice was whispering in her ear; a hand clasped hers with a force that sent the blood up from her heart in rosy waves.

“My mother has told me all; they have consented,” he whispered.

She did not answer; for Mr. Gould had led her grandmother into the midst of the room, and was welcoming all these people as if the house had been his own.

“This lady,” he said, gently touching the little hand on his arm, “is a little agitated just now, and leaves me to welcome you; but first let me present her. She is my wife, and has been rather more than forty years These boys and that girl yonder are my grandchildren. Their father, my only son, was killed in battle. For many years, by no fault on either side, I have been separated from my family. Thank God! we are united now. Gould, come and kiss your aunt. Anna, have I performed my promise?”

Anna sprang toward him, and threw both arms around his neck.

“My own, own grandfather!” she cried, lavishing such kisses on him as fatherly old men love to receive from rosy lips.

He returned her kisses, patting her on the head as he gently put her away.

“James, James, I have seen that face before. Who is this lady?” said Mrs. Burns, clinging to his arm, as old Mrs. Halstead came up with her congratulations.

“Yes, Mary, this lady was my brother’s wife—not the mother of this young fellow. His father came over later; but she is the lady whom you once saw.”

“And one who hopes to see her many a time after this; especially as she has been the means of reconciling me with this unreasonable man, who never would have forgiven me for marrying again, but for the interest I took in this family. For years and years, dear lady, we had been strangers to each other. This is, in all respects, a family reunion.”

With this little speech, the handsome old lady held out her hand; but Mrs. Gould, remembering all she had done for her, instead of shaking the hand reached forth her arms, and the two old women embraced with tender dignity, which filled more than one pair of bright eyes with mist.

The old man stood by well pleased and smiling. He saw that young Gould had retreated toward Georgiana; and that Savage was bending over the chair to which Anna had gone.

“There is no objection in that quarter, I fancy!” he said, looking at Mrs. Halstead, and nodding toward the young couple.

“He already has our consent,” answered Mrs. Halstead, smiling.

“As for these young people,” said the old man, approaching Anna, “it is but just to say that Horace Savage had his parents’ sanction to his marriage with my granddaughter, before they knew that she would inherit one fourth of my fortune; the other portion going in equal parts, to my nephew and grandsons. Where have the little fellows hid themselves?”

“I am here, grandfather,” said little Joseph, lifting his beautiful eyes to the old man’s face, and stealing a hold on his grandmother’s hand as he spoke; “and so is Robert, only he’s so surprised.”

“I’m so glad, you mean,” said Robert, coming into the light; “for now Josey can go to school; and Anna—hurra for sister Anna!”

When the bustle, which followed this speech, died away, it was followed by a hysterical sob, piteous to hear, which came from a sofa in the little parlor, on which Miss Eliza had thrown herself.

“What is the matter?” cried half a dozen voices—and the sofa was instantly surrounded. “What is the cause of this?”

“Oh! leave me alone! leave me alone to my desolation!” she cried; “the last link is broken; there is no truth—no honor—no chivalry in the world!”

Old Mr. Gould, as master of the house, felt himself called upon to offer some consolation for the disappointment, which he supposed had sprung out of her unreasonable hopes regarding his nephew; but as he came close to her, she sprang up and pushed him violently backward.

“Touch me not, ingrate! household fiend! traitor! You have broken my heart, trifled with the affections of an innocent, loving, confiding, transparent nature. Do not dare to touch me. Turn those craven eyes on the antiquated being that you have preferred to my youth and confiding innocence.”

She sat down, panting for breath, still pointing her finger at the astonished old man; while her brother stood appalled, and old Mrs. Halstead sat down in pale consternation.

“I do not understand this,” said old Mr. Gould, looking dreadfully perplexed.

“I do,” whispered the nephew, laughing. “It wasn’t me, but another chap she was after.”

Just then a sharp ring came to the door. Robert opened it, and there stood his early friend, the newsboy, with a torn hat in his hand.

“Excuse me for coming when you’ve got company, old fellow; but I’m awfully stuck—had my pockets picked. Look a-there! lost every cent I’ve got in the theatre jest as that new tragedy chap was a-dying beautifully! Broke up, if you can’t lend me something to start on in the morning.”

The boy hauled out a very dirty pocket, and shook its emptiness in proof of the reality.

“I haven’t got a dollar myself.”

“Jest so. Can’t be helped. I’m up a stump this time and no mistake. Good-night, old fellow.”

“Stop, stop a minute; I’ll ask my grandfather. Come back, I say.”

The boy came back, and stood with one hand in the rifled pocket, waiting.

“Grandfather! grandfather!” said Robert, breathless and eager, “I want some of those funds of my quarter in advance. I’ve got a friend out there in distress.”

The old man laughed, everybody laughed except Miss Eliza, who stopped sobbing to listen, and Joseph, who said, “Oh, Robert! how can you! He hasn’t been our grandfather more than an hour!”

Robert heeded nothing of this, but drew his grandfather to the door, and pointed out his friend.

“He was good to me once, sir—good as gold. It was he who took me to your counting-room, and recommended me.”

The old man was feeling in his pocket. He recognized the boy.

“How much will do, my boy?” he said, in high good humor.

“Say five—that’ll set me up tip-top.”

The old man handed him a bank-note.

“Twenty dollars, by golly!” cried the boy, putting his hat on with a swing of the arm. “Old gentleman, you’re a trump, and he’s a right bower! Good evening! I’m set up for life, I am!”

As Mr. Gould was turning to go in again, the mistress of the tenement-house passed him.

“Every thing is right,” she said. “You wont want me.”

“But I want you,” said Mr. Gould. “No woman who has been the friend to my wife that you have, must pass me without thanks. Tell me, what can I do for you?”

“Nothing, sir; that is, nothing in particular; only if you would just tell that agent of yourn not to be quite so hard about the rent of that house. I shall have to give it up if he is.”

“What! do you live in a house of mine?”

“Yes, sir; and have these six years.”

“Where is it?”

She told him.

“What! that old tenement? Come to my office in the morning, and I’ll give you a deed for it. Don’t forget.”

“Oh, sir!”

“Don’t forget. You know the place.”

“Never fear, sir; I wont let her forget,” said Robert, rejoicing in his heart.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” said the old man, entering the parlor, “let us see what the fairies have brought us for supper. Mr. Halstead, will you take Mrs. Gould? Your mother and I are good friends now—I will take her.”

“Miss Eliza, shall I have the honor?”

It was young Gould, prompted by Georgiana.

“No, no! I am faint—I am ill; pray leave me!”

“Oh, do come!” said Robert, who was everywhere that night. “Such birds! Such partridges! Such chicken-salad!”

“Mr. Gould, to oblige you, I will make an effort,” said Miss Eliza. “Sometimes a mouthful of chicken-salad brings me to when nothing else will. Forgive me if I lean heavily.”

She did lean heavily; and beside that one mouthful of chicken-salad, there was considerable devastation among the birds in her neighborhood, to say nothing of the breast of a partridge that disappeared altogether. Then came champagne in large glasses, which gave light to Miss Eliza’s tearful eyes, color to cheeks that did not need it, and warmth to that poor heart, just broken for the twentieth time. That is all I have to say on the subject.

THE END.

T. B. PETERSON AND BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS.

NEW BOOKS ISSUED EVERY WEEK.

Comprising the most entertaining and absorbing works published, suitable for the Parlor, Library, Sitting Room, Railroad or Steamboat reading, by the best writers in the world.

☞ Orders solicited from Booksellers, Librarians, Canvassers, News Agents, and all others in want of good and fast selling books, which will be supplied at Low Prices. ☜

☞ TERMS: To those with whom we have no monthly account, Cash with Order. ☜

CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS.

Cheap edition, paper cover.

This edition is published complete in twenty-seven largo octavo volumes, in paper cover, as follows:

Our Mutual Friend, | $1.00
Great Expectations, | 75
Lamplighter’s Story, | 75
David Copperfield, | 75
  Do.bey and Son, | 75
Nicholas Nickleby, | 75
Pickwick Papers, | 75
Christmas Stories, | 75
Martin Chuzzlewit, | 75
Old Curiosity Shop, | 75
Barnaby Rudge, | 75
Dickens’ New Stories, | 75
Bleak House, | 75
Joseph Grimaldi, | 75
Sketches by “Boz,” | 75
Oliver Twist, | 75
Little Dorrit, | 75
Tale of Two Cities, | 75
New Years’ Stories, | 75
Dickens’ Short Stories, | 75
Message from the Sea, | 75
Holiday Stories, | 75
American Notes, | 75
Pic-Nic Papers, | 75
Somebody’s Luggage | 25
Tom Tiddler’s Ground, | 25
The Haunted House, | 25

ILLUSTRATED OCTAVO EDITION.

Each book being complete in one volume.

Our Mutual Friend, | Cloth, $2.50
Pickwick Papers, | Cloth, 2.50
Nicholas Nickleby, | Cloth, 2.50
Great Expectations, | Cloth, 2.50
Lamplighter’s Story, | Cloth, 2.50
Oliver Twist, | Cloth, 2.50
Bleak House, | Cloth, 2.50
Little Dorrit, | Cloth, 2.50
  Do.bey and Son, | Cloth, 2.50
Sketches by “Boz,” | Cloth, 2.50
David Copperfield, | Cloth, 2.50
Barnaby Rudge, | Cloth, 2.50
Martin Chuzzlewit, | Cloth, 2.50
Old Curiosity Shop, | Cloth, 2.50
Christmas Stories, | Cloth, 2.50
Dickens’ New Stories, | Cloth, 2.50
A Tale of Two Cities, | Cloth, 2.50
American Notes and Pic-Nic Papers, | Cloth, 2.50
Price of a set, in Black cloth, in eighteen volumes | $44.00
Price of a set, in Full Law Library style | 53.00
Price of a set, in Half calf, sprinkled edges | 63.00
Price of a set, in Half calf, marbled edges | 68.00
Price of a set, in Half calf, antique | 78.00
Price of a set, in Half calf, full gilt backs, etc. | 78.00

PEOPLE’S DUODECIMO EDITION.

Each book being complete in one volume.

Our Mutual Friend, | Cloth, $2.50
Pickwick Papers, | Cloth, 2.50
Nicholas Nickleby, | Cloth, 2.50
Great Expectations, | Cloth, 2.50
Lamplighter’s Story, | Cloth, 2.50
David Copperfield, | Cloth, 2.50
Oliver Twist, | Cloth, 2.50
Bleak House, | Cloth, 2.50
A Tale of Two Cities, | Cloth, 2.50
Little Dorrit, | Cloth, 2.50
  Do.bey and Son, | Cloth, 2.50
Christmas Stories, | Cloth, 2.50
Sketches by “Boz,” | Cloth, 2.50
Barnaby Rudge, | Cloth, 2.50
Martin Chuzzlewit, | Cloth, 2.50
Old Curiosity Shop, | Cloth, 2.50
Message from the Sea, | Cloth, 2.50
Dickens’ New Stories, | Cloth, 2.50
Price of a set, in Black cloth, in eighteen volumes | $44.00
Price of a set, in Full Law Library style | 50.00
Price of a set, in Half calf, sprinkled edges | 60.00
Price of a set, in Half calf, marbled edges | 65.00
Price of a set, in Half calf, antique | 72.00
Price of a set, in Half calf, full gilt backs, etc. | 72.00

ILLUSTRATED DUODECIMO EDITION.

Each book being complete in two volumes.

Our Mutual Friend, | Cloth, $4.00
Pickwick Papers, | Cloth, 4.00
Tale of Two Cities, | Cloth, 4.00
Nicholas Nickleby, | Cloth, 4.00
David Copperfield, | Cloth, 4.00
Oliver Twist, | Cloth, 4.00
Christmas Stories, | Cloth, 4.00
Bleak House, | Cloth, 4.00
Sketches by “Boz,” | Cloth, 4.00
Barnaby Rudge, | Cloth, 4.00
Martin Chuzzlewit | Cloth, 4.00
Old Curiosity Shop, | Cloth, 4.00
Little Dorrit, | Cloth, 4.00
  Do.bey and Son, | Cloth, 4.00
The following are each complete in one volume.
Great Expectations, | Cloth, $2.50
Lamplighter’s Story, | Cloth, 2.50
Dickens’ New Stories, | Cloth, 2.50
Message from the Sea, | Cloth, 2.50
Price of a set, in thirty-two volumes, bound in cloth, | $64.00
Price of a set, in Full Law Library style | 80.00
Price of a set, in Half calf, antique | 125.00
Price of a set, in Half calf, full gilt backs, etc. | 125.00

☞ No Library is complete without a set of these Books, and either Edition of Charles Dickens’ Works will be sent to any address, free of transportation, on receipt of Retail Price.

MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS’ WORKS.

The Gold Brick, | 1 50
Silent Struggles, | 1 50
The Wife’s Secret, | 1 50
The Rejected Wife, | 1 50
The Heiress, | 1 50
Fashion and Famine, | 1 50
Mary Derwent, | 1 50
The Old Homestead, | 1 50

The above are in paper cover, or in cloth, price $2.00 each.

FREDRIKA BREMER’S WORKS.

Father and Daughter, | 1 50
The Four Sisters, | 1 50
The Neighbors, | 1 50
The Home, | 1 50

The above are in paper cover, or in cloth, price $2.00 each.

Life in the Old World; or, Two Years in Switzerland and Italy, by Miss Bremer, in two volumes, cloth, price,
$4.00

MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH’S WORKS.

The Fortune Seeker, | 1 50
Allworth Abbey, | 1 50
The Bridal Eve, | 1 50
The Fatal Marriage, | 1 50
Haunted Homestead, | 1 50
The Lost Heiress, | 1 50
Lady of the Isle, | 1 50
The Two Sisters, | 1 50
The Three Beauties, | 1 50
Vivia; Secret Power, | 1 50
Love’s Labor Won, | 1 50
Deserted Wife, | 1 50
The Gipsy’s Prophecy, | 1 50
The Mother-in-Law, | 1 50
The Missing Bride, | 1 50
Wife’s Victory, | 1 50
Retribution, | 1 50
India. Pearl of Pearl River, | 1 50
Curse of Clifton, | 1 50
Discarded Daughter, | 1 50

The above are in paper cover, or in cloth, price $2.00 each.

Hickory Hall, | 50
Broken Engagement, | 25

MRS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ’S WORKS.

The Planter’s Northern Bride, | 1 50
Linda; or, the Young Pilot of the Belle Creole, | 1 50
Robert Graham. The Sequel to “Linda,” | 1 50
Courtship and Marriage, | 1 50
Ernest Linwood, | 1 50
Marcus Warland, | 1 50
Rena; or, the Snow-bird, | 1 50
The Lost Daughter, | 1 50
Love after Marriage, | 1 50
Eoline; or, Magnolia Vale, | 1 50
The Banished Son, | 1 50
Helen and Arthur, | 1 50
Forsaken Daughter, | 1 50
Planter’s Daughter, | 1 50

The above are in paper cover, or in cloth, price $2.00 each.

WORKS BY THE VERY BEST AUTHORS.

Flirtations in Fashionable Life, | 1 50
The Lost Beauty, | 1 50
The Rival Belles, | 1 50
The Lost Love, | 1 50
The Woman in Black, | 1 50
The Pride of Life, | 1 50
The Roman Traitor, | 1 50
Saratoga. A Story of 1787, | 1 50
The Queen’s Favorite, | 1 50
Married at Last, | 1 50
False Pride, | 1 50
Out of the Depths. The Story of a Woman’s Life, | 1 50
The Coquette; or, Life and Letters of Eliza Wharton, | 1 50
A Woman’s Thoughts about Women, | 1 50
Self-Love, | 1 50
Cora Belmont, | 1 50
The Devoted Bride, | 1 50
The Initials. A Story of Modern Life. By Baroness Tautphœus, | 1 50
Love and Duty, | 1 50
Bohemians in London, | 1 50
The Man of the World, | 1 50
High Life in Washington, | 1 50
The Jealous Husband, | 1 50
Self-Sacrifice, | 1 50
Belle of Washington, | 1 50
Courtship and Matrimony, | 1 50
Family Pride, | 1 50
Family Secrets, | 1 50
Rose Douglas, | 1 50
The Lover’s Trials | 1 50
Beautiful Widow, | 1 50
Brother’s Secret, | 1 50
The Matchmaker, | 1 50
Love and Money, | 1 50

The above are in paper cover, or in cloth, price $2.00 each.

The Story of Elizabeth. By Miss Thackeray. In one duodecimo volume, full gilt back. Price $1.00 in paper, or $1.50 in cloth.

MADAME GEORGE SAND’S WORKS.

Consuelo, | 75
Countess of Rudolstadt, | 75
First and True Love, | 75
The Corsair, | 50
Jealousy, paper, | 1 50
  Do. cloth, | 2 00
Fanchon, the Cricket, paper, | 1 00
  Do. do. cloth, | 1 50
Indiana, a Love Story, paper, | 1 50
  Do. cloth, | 2 00
Consuelo and Rudolstadt, both in one volume, cloth, | 2 00

WILKIE COLLINS’ BEST WORKS.

The Crossed Path, or Basil, | 1 50
The Dead Secret. 12mo. | 1 50
The above are in paper cover, or each one in cloth, price $2.00 each.
Hide and Seek, | 75
After Dark, | 75
The Dead Secret. 8vo | 75
Above in cloth at $1.00 each.
The Queen’s Revenge, | 75
Sight’s a-Foot; or, Travels Beyond Railways, | 50
Mad Monkton, and other Stories, | 50
The Stolen Mask, | 25
The Yellow Mask, | 25
Sister Rose, | 25

MISS PARDOE’S WORKS.

The Jealous Wife, | 50
Confessions of a Pretty Woman, | 75
The Wife’s Trials, | 75
Rival Beauties, | 75
Romance of the Harem, | 75
The five above books are also bound in one volume, cloth, for $4.00.

The Adopted Heir. One volume, paper, $1.50, or cloth, $2.00.

The Earl’s Secret. By Miss Pardoe, one vol., paper $1.50, or cloth, $2.00.

G. P. R. JAMES’S BEST BOOKS.

Lord Montague’s Page, | 1 50
The Cavalier, | 1 50

The above are in paper cover, or each one in cloth, price $2.00 each.

The Man in Black, | 75
Mary of Burgundy, | 75
Arrah Neil, | 75
Eva St. Clair, | 50

BEST COOK BOOKS PUBLISHED.

Mrs. Goodfellow’s Cookery as it Should Be, | 2 00
Petersons’ New Cook Book, | 2 00
Miss Leslie’s New Cookery Book, | 2 00
Widdifield’s New Cook Book, | 2 00
Mrs. Hale’s Receipts for the Million, | 2 00
Miss Leslie’s New Receipts for Cooking, | 2 00
Mrs. Hale’s New Cook Book, | 2 00
Francatelli’s Celebrated Cook Book. The Modern Cook. With Sixty-two illustrations, 600 large octavo pages, | 5 00

CHARLES LEVER’S BEST WORKS.

Charles O’Malley, | 75
Harry Lorrequer, | 75
Jack Hinton, | 75
Tom Burke of Ours, | 75
Knight of Gwynne, | 75
Arthur O’Leary, | 75
Con Cregan, | 75
Davenport Dunn, | 75
Above are in paper, or in cloth, price $2.00 a volume.
Horace Templeton, | 75
Kate O’Donoghue, | 75

☞ Books sent, postage paid, on receipt of the Retail Price, by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa.

GET UP YOUR CLUBS FOR 1867!

THE BEST AND CHEAPEST IN THE WORLD!

PETERSON’S MAGAZINE.

This popular Monthly contains more for the money than any Magazine in the world. In 1867, it will have nearly 1000 pages, 14 steel plates, 12 double-sized mammoth colored steel fashion plates, and 900 wood engravings—and all this for only TWO DOLLARS A YEAR, or a dollar less than magazines of its class. Every lady ought to take “Peterson.” In the general advance of prices, it is the only Magazine that has not raised its Price. It is, therefore, emphatically,

THE MAGAZINE FOR THE TIMES.

In addition to the usual number of shorter stories, there will be given in 1867, Four Original Copy-righted Novelets, viz:

RUBY GRAY’S REVENGE, by Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.

A LONG JOURNEY, by the Author of “Margaret Howth.”

CARRY’S COMING OUT, by Frank Lee Benedict.

A BOLD STROKE FOR A HUSBAND, by Ella Rodman.

In its Illustrations also, “Peterson” is unrivalled. The Publisher challenges a comparison between its

SUPERB MEZZOTINTS & other STEEL ENGRAVINGS

And those in other Magazines, and one at least is given in each number.

DOUBLE-SIZE COLORED FASHION PLATES

Each number will contain a double-size Fashion plate, engraved on steel and handsomely colored. These plates contain from four to six figures each, and excel anything of the kind. In addition, wood-cuts of the newest bonnets, hats, caps, head dresses, cloaks, jackets, ball dresses, walking dresses, house dresses, &c., &c., will appear in each number. Also, the greatest variety of children’s dresses. Also diagrams, by aid of which a cloak, dress, or child’s costume can be cut out, without the aid of a mantua-maker, so that each diagram in this way alone, will save a year’s subscription. The Paris, London, Philadelphia and New York fashions described, in full, each month.

COLORED PATTERNS IN EMBROIDERY, CROCHET, &c.

The Work-Table Department of this Magazine Is Wholly Unrivaled. Every number contains a dozen or more patterns in every variety of Fancy work; Crochet, Embroidery, Knitting, Bead-work, Shell-work, Hair-work, &c., &c., &c. Superb Colored Patterns for Slippers, Purses, Chair Seats, &c., given—each of which at a retail store would cost Fifty cents.

“OUR NEW COOK-BOOK.”

The Original Household Receipts of “Peterson” are quite famous. For 1867 our “Cook-Book” will be continued: Every One of these Receipts has been Tested. This alone will be worth the price of “Peterson.” Other Receipts for the Toilette, Sick-room, &c., &c., will be given.

New and Fashionable Music in every number. Also, Hints on Horticulture, Equestrianism, and all matters interesting to ladies.

TERMS—ALWAYS IN ADVANCE.

1 | Copy, for one year. | $2.00
3 | Copies, for one year. | 4.50
4 | Copies, for one year. | 6.00
5 | Copies, (and 1 to getter up Club.) | 8.00
8 | Copies, (and 1 to getter up Club.) | 12.00
14 | Copies, (and 1 to getter up Club.) | 20.00

A CHOICE OF PREMIUMS. Where a person is entitled to an extra copy for getting up a club, there will be sent, if preferred, instead of the extra copy, a superb premium mezzotint for framing, (size 27 inches by 20,) “Washington parting from his Generals,” or a Lady’s Illustrated Album, handsomely bound and gilt, or either of the famous “Bunyan Mezzotints,” the same size as the “Washington.” Always state whether an extra copy or one of these other premiums is preferred: and notice that for Clubs of three or four, no premiums are given. In remitting, get a post-office order, or a draft on Philadelphia or New York: if neither of these can be had, send greenbacks or bank notes.

Address, post-paid,

CHARLES J. PETERSON,

No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa.

☞ Specimens sent to those wishing to get up clubs.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.

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