HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. VOL. LXXII. DECEMBER, 1885. No. CCCCXXVII. THE NATIVITY IN ART. THE great cy- cle of divine events which is exhibited in the Bible is divided into two series the Old Testament history and the Gospel history. Thedividingpoint is a fact, the crown and culmination of the first series, the germ and be- ginning of the sec- ond. The theoph- anies of the Old Testament are all surpassed and summed up, the redemption history of the New Testament is opened and secured, in the Nativity of Christ. The personal entrance of God into humanity, the visible coming of the Saviour who is to redeem the world, the historical appearance of the Eternal Word in mortal flesh, the birth of the di- vine Jesus in Bethlehem of Jud~a, is the central fact of Christianity. It is the foun- dation not only of its own specific doctrines of the Incarnation, but of all the otliers which are most essential to the system. It is the great miracle which makes the mi- raculous credible. Take this away, and the whole fabric falls in ruins. The Old Testament is falsified because its proph- ecies remain unfulfilled. The New Testa- ment is reduced to insignificance because its central figure becomes unreal, and all its events lose the heart of their meaning. This fact is pivotal. Accept this as real, believ~ that the Son of God was conceived of the Holy Ghost and born of the Virgin Mary in the stable at Bethlehem, and the entire cycle of Christian truth becomes clear, beautiful, harmonious, and credible. It would fall quite outside the scope of this article to attempt any proof or dis proof of this historical fact. What I want to do is simply to show the place which it has taken and the treatment which it has received in Christian art. What has the Nativity meant to those who have believed in it, and how has this meaning been in- terpreted to the imagination of the faith- ful in stone and on canvas? And here, at the very outset, we meet with something strange and surprising. Should we not expect to find that from the beginning the Nativity has been the favorite theme of Christian art, the sub- ject with which the reverent fancy of the infant church has occupied itself most frequently and most fondly, the scene which occurs earliest and is most con- stantly repeated in the pictorial illustra- tions of the Gospel history? So the ma- jority of essayists who have written upon this subject have told us. But they have not told exactly the truth. Their state- ments come rather from a sense of what ought to be than from an accurate know- ledge of what is. As a matter of fact, the Nativity does not appear in any form of art until the fourth century; it is repre- sented less frequently than many other events both of the Old and of the New Testament history; it does not begin to appear in a central and dominant position until the thirteenth century, and it falls again, at the close of the sixteenth century, into a comparative neglect. What are the reasons of this?for reasons there must be, and not merely the- oretical explanations, but actual histor- ical causes. An individual may suppress or divert the play of his feelings according to rule or whim. He may exalt or de- press an event in his imagination, he may choose or refuse to picture it with his mind or his hand, for purposes which are arti- ficial and premeditated. But a commu- nity, a generation of men is more natural and naive. Its legends, its literature, and, Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1885, by Harper and Brothers, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. All rights rese,ved. VOL. LxxIi.No. 427.i FROM sARcOPHAGUs OF FOURTH cENTURY. 4 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. above all, its art, inevitably betray its in- most thought and feeling. If the Nativ- ity is pictured but rarely in early Chris- tian art, it is simply because the early Christians did not think very often or feel very deeply about the Nativity. But this reason is itself so strange and wonderful that we can not help looking behind it for a further explanation. We must find the reasons of the reason; and to do this we must understand something of the inmost life and thought of the prim- itive church in the first three centuries. Here we enter at once into a dim and misty re~ion. The systems of Christian doc- trines are not yet elaborated. The order of church festivals is not yet established. Even the canon of Holy Scripture remains in partial uncertainty and confusion. But a few great facts loom up massively in the twilight, so that we can hardly mistake them. And first of all, we feel the predomi- nant influence of the Resurrection on the thought of the early Christians. This was for them incomparably the greatest event in the history of Christ, because it was the pledge and proof not only of His Messiahship, but also of their own immor- tality. His crucifixion was inseparably connected with it, as the consummation of His redeeming work. The entire history of salvation was summed up for them in the words He died for our sins and rose again for our justification. They did not feel any pressing need of looking beyond this to inquire how Christ came into the world, or what connection there was be- tween His birth and His atoning death. It was enough for them that He was there, that He had been crucified and raised again for the worlds redemption; and therefore they were content to centre their thought and feeling upon the festival of Easter, in which these two great events were commemorated. Moreover, the pre- dominant element in their conception of Christ was the thought of His divinity. All the apostles, many of the other dis- ciples, had seen Him in His resurrection glory; none of them had looked upon Him a~ a helpless babe in the cradle. Especially the cont9olling mind of St. Paul was filled with the glory of the only form in which he had ever seen the Christthat form of splendor shining above the brightness of the Syrian noon and dwelt naturally upon the vision of divine majesty rather than upon the lowly picture of human in- fancy. The epistles were written before the gospels; and of the gospels only one lingers with tender emotion upon the details of the birth in Bethlehem. Perhaps the early Christians feared to weaken their sense of Christs present exaltation by dwelling too much upon His past humiliation. Cer- tainly they were more willing to give up His humanity than to limit in any way their assertion of His divinity. The earli- est heresy was Doketism, which reduced the human nature of Christ to an illusion a mere mask and simulacrum of man- hood; and throughout the first three cen- turies we find only here and there one of the church fathers who seems to realize that Jesus was truly bone of our bone and flesh of our flesh. This was unfortunate in many ways, but it was not unnatural; for we must remember that humanity was not very hu- mane to the early Christians. This world was a hard home to them. Indeed, it was not a home at all; they did not regard it so. They were oppressed and persecuted and martyred, alike by Jews and by pa- gans. It was no benefit to them to be born. To die was their true escape and felicity. And so it came to pass naturally that they lived entirely in the heavenly future, despising the present life, and cel- ebrating the martyrs death-days as their true birthdays. TI.ius the great Origen, in a homily on Leviticus, xii. 2, assures his hearers that none of the saints can be found who ever held a feast or a banquet upon his birthday, or rejoiced on the day when his son or his daughter was born. But sinners rejoice and make merry on such days. For we find in the Old Testa- ment that Pharaoh, King of Egypt, cele- brated his birthday with a feast, and that Herod, in the New Testament, did the same. But the saints no\only neglect to mark the day of their birth with festivity, but also, filled with the Holy Ghost, they curse this day, after the example of Job and Jer- emiah and David. While the leading teacher of the church was holding forth after this wise, we can hardly expect to find the Christians thinking much about the Nativity, or dreaming of a celebration of Christmas. They regarded the entrance of the Son of God into humanity as an in- cidental circumstance in the history of re- demption. It was necessary, merely, as one must pass through a door in order to get into the room where on~ is to work. It was a shameful humiliation, but with- THE NATIVITY IN ART. 5 out special significance. They had grasp- ed the great doctrine of Atonement, but they had not yet taken hold of the larger doctrine of Incarnation. They believed that Christ was born in order that He might die: they had not yet come to see that He had to die because He had been born. I do. not mean to assert that this was the universal and unbroken condition of thought and feeling in the church during the first three centuries. There wer& some men in advance of their age who had learned to think of the whole life of Christ in its unity as a life for and with man, crowned by His vicarious death and res- urrection. Iren~us in particular is wor- thy of special mention and enduring lion- or as the first of the fathers to bring out time unfolding of all the stages of human life in Jesus Christ; and even though he had never written another word than this, lie deserves to be immortal in the memory of the church for having said, The Son of God became a child among the children in order that childhood might be made holy. This sentence holds the heart of Christ- mas. But it was not until long after it was uttered, it was not until the latter half of the fourth century, that the church at large began to feel and to unfold its mean- ing. Then it was that she emerged from the storm of persecution into tIme sunshine of imperial favor. Then she saw that she THE MANGER. GIOTTO. 6 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. had a work to do here on earth in the cleansing and adorning of human life with the beauty of holiness. Then she realized that patient suffe ing and faithful death were not the only duties of the Christian, but that, following God in love, it was possible to begin in this world the purity and peace of heaven. Then she began to feel the wondrous significance of the liv- ing entrance of the Son of God into the life of man, and his perfect pattern of ho- liness in every human relation. Then she passed from the lower conception of a church saved out of the world, to the higher conception of a world to be saved through the ministry of the church, a natural year to be transformed by rever- ent devotion and wholesome piety into the Christian year, a redeeming life as well as an atoning death of Christ, to be preserved in living remembrance by the perpetual commemoration of its chief events. Then it was that, opening her heart to the humanity of religion, she be- gan to draw near to the humanity of Je- sus, and to seek with ea~er interest for the day of His birth that she might make it holy. But what clew was there to direct the search? What reason could be given for choosing one day rather than another for the Christmas festival? The gospels, al- ways meagre in dates, were quite silent here. They gave rio hint of the day or month of the Nativity. Oral tradition, we may be sure, was equally reticent or THE VIRGIN IN A WOOD. FILIrrO LIrrI. THE NATIVITY IN ART. 7 indifferent. There were, indeed, a few of the Nativity, others preferred the 20th scattered suggestions of the date of Christs of April, hut he favored the 19th of No- birth floating here and there among the vember. In the Eastern Church the 5th writings of the fathers; but these were or 6th of January was celebrated as the all of late origin, manifestly unhistorical, date of Christs baptism, and the Nativity and, above all, quite contradictory. Clem- was joined with this on no better ground eat of Alexandria said that many Chris- than a forced interpretation of Ezekiel, i. tians regarded the 20th of May as the day 13, as a prophecy of the Incarnation. MATER nA. LUcA DELLA ROBBIA. 8 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Others again fixed upon the 21st of March as the day of Christs birth. Between such varying and slightly supported as- sumptions there was little to choose. A historical date was clearly out of the ques- tion. Nothing was left for the church to do but to select some day on grounds of convenience and symbolic significance and celebrate it by common consent as Christmas Day. It would take too long for me to trace the many reasons which probably led to the choice of the 25th of December. It was doubtless connected by a process of deduction with the day which had al- ready been generally accepted as the corn- mon date of the Annunciation and of the creation of the world. Assuming that the world was made in the spring, because it was commanded to bring forth grass and herbs, and that it was made when light and darkness were equally divided, because the evening and the morning were the first day,it was natural, though somewhat naive, to fix upon the vernal equinox (according to the Julian calen- dar, March 25) as the exact date of the creation. He who could question the value of such a straightforward and scrip- tural argument as this must have had more logic and less piety than belonged to the early Christians. And once hav- ing discovered by this easy method the very day on which the world came into being, and the glorious light sprang out of darkness, what more simple than to as- THE ADORATION OF THE SHEPHERDS. GIJIRLANDAJO. THe NATIVITY. ~~BERNARDINO LUINI. 10 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. sume that it was the same day on which the power of the Almighty overshadowed Mary, and the Day-spring from on high began His entrance into the world? No- thing could be plainer. Even the least imaginative of chronographers could reck- on forward from this fixed point of the Annunciation nine months, and arrive at December 25 as the day of the Nativity. And here another wonderful coincidence meets him. This is the day of the winter solstice, the day when the worlds dark- ness begins to lessen, and the worlds light to grow; the day which the ancient world had long celebrated as the birthday of the sundies natalis solis irtvicti: what more appropriate day could be found for the birth of the Sun of Righteousness? Behold, my brethren, says St. Augus- tine, another instance of the wondrous fulfillment of Scripture. St. John the Baptist is born on June 25, the summer solstice, when the sun begins to decline. The Lord Jesus is born on December 25, the winter solstice, when the sun begins to ascend. And in this is fulfilled the saying, He must increase, but I must de- crease. Does any disciple of modern criticism sneer at this very simple exegesis? Does he venture to think that the early Chris- tians may have been very pious, but must have been even more foolish? Nay, my self-satisfied but otherwise discontented friend, it is you who are foolish, when you suppose that the early Christians im- agined that they were making history, or settling chronology as a science, by these simple speculations. Other and later commentators, the fathers of the Hard Church, like Archbishop Usher, may have thought their elaborate conclusions definite and exact. But in the primitive age faith was less mathematical, and all that the early Christians ever meant to do was to bind their devotions into har- mony with the year of nature, and utter their profound belief in the vital unity of the life of Christ with the life of the world. Creation and redemption, resurrection and daybreak, nativity and the returning of the unconquered sun these are united in the thought of God, and in the grati- tude of man. And though the shepherds of Bethlehem may not have watched in the fields by night amid the rigors of mid- winter, though the tax registration of Publius Sulpicius Quirinus may not have taken place in December, every heart that feels the simplicity and beauty of the Christian faith can join in the gladness of that Christmas Day which has been consecrated by centuries of holy joy, and which celebrates the forthcoming of a new light from the darkest and longest of the nights of earth. The earliest mention of the 25th of De- cember as Christmas Day is found in an ancient catalogue of church festivals about 354 AD. And it is surprising to see with what alacrity the date was received and the Nativity celebrated throughout Chris- tendom. It seems as if the world had been waiting for this festival of divine and human childhood, and was ready to welcome it at once with songs of joy. In the year 360 it was already celebrated in Rome by vast multitudes thronging the churches. Twenty years later, Antioch had taken it up with great popular enthu- siasm. And in little more than fifty years from its earliest suggestion, the observ- ance of December 25 as the day of the Na- tivity had become the universal practice of Christians. St. Chrysostom, in a Christ- mas sermon preached at Antioch, called it the fundamental feast, or the root from which all other Christian festivals grow. It is precisely at this time, the latter part of the fourth century, when the Christmas festival begins to take its place in the church year, that the Nativity makes its appearance in art. In the church of St. Celsus at Milan there is a rude stone sarcophagus carved in relief with five scenes from the life of Christ. The first of these is probably one of the oldest known representations of the birth of Jesus. It is a rude and simple carving, as the engraving at the beginning of this article shows. It was cut by some un- known hand of little skill, and as a work of a.rt, in the technical sense, it is hardly worthy of a moments notice; but as a revelation of child-like faith and reverent feeling, it is most precious. See how sini- ~ ply and yet how truthfully the humble stone-cutter has told the story. The child, wrapped in swaddling-clothes, lies in a manger. The thatched roof which covers it is evidently the roof of a stable; for this primitive artist knows nothing of the later tradition which laid the scene of Jesus birth in a grotto. The ox and the ass are there, not chosen by chance from the possible inhabitants of a stable, but with reference to the words of the ancient prophet: The ox knoweth his owner, LA NOTTE. CORREGGIO. 12 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. and the ass his masters crib, but Israel doth not know, my people doth not con- sider. None of the great and wise men of the nation are present, not even a group of lowly and pious peasants have assem- bled to welcome the coming of the Lord. Every line of this simple carving tells of the poverty, the humility, the obscurity, in which the babe Jesus was born. But where is the Virgin Mary, the holy mother? and where is Joseph, her hus- band and protector? Even these familiar figures are absent, hidden in the back- ground, or left out at the side of the pic- ture; for the artist will have all our thought and love fixed upon the central figure, the innocent and helpless child in the strange cradle. He has not yet learned to divide the honors of the divine Son with the fa- vored mother, nor turned from the low- liness of infancy to spend his skill upon the fancied splendors of a deified woman- hood. Other and later artists will centre their reverence upon the handmaid, but this man exalts her Lord; for the wor- ship of Mary has not yet begun, and the simple stone-cutter knows nothing of the Queen of Heaven. But one ray of heavenly glory he must haveone touch to show that this birth, so lowly to the outward eye, has a divine significance. And so above the roof lie puts an angel, with his right hand lifted in wonder at the sight, and his left hand bearing a cross, the sign of the way of suffering and death in which Jesus must THE ADORATION. ~~ROGER VANDER WEYDEN. THE NATIVITY IN ART. 13 afterward walk. Thus reverently and with an admirable reserve does our old carver of stone coffins tell us what he thinks of the Nativity, and with not a stroke too much or too little for his mean- ing, he leaves the Christ-child lying alone in deep and solemn stillness between the beasts of the stall and the angel of God. Oh, but you say, no one can really admire such rude and primitive work as this. It is coarse and stiff, like a childs drawinb on a slate. It is positively ugly, and to pretend to like it is the merest af- fectation of a singular taste. Granted at once, if by liking it you mean liking the execution, or if by aduji- ration you mean the mere pleasure of the eye. There is nothing here to wonder at HOLY FAMILY. ALBERT DURER. 14 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. in the way of technique, and I suppose there are a hundred pupils at the Cooper Union or South Kensington to-day who could do better modelling. But the spirit, the sentiment, the straightforward hon- esty, the dignified reticence, show us that this man knew what the Nativity meant, and pictured it because he believed in it and loved it. This is more than we can always say of Raphael or Rubens. Aiid, after all, this is the principal thing. For though we demand something more than pure feeling and honest expression for the production of perfect art, yet if we must absolutely choose between perfection of technique and sincerity of purpose, surely we will keep the heart rather than the face. But if we look, and not unnaturally, for men who shall have the skill and training to express their thought of the Nativity with some approach to symmetry and life-likeness, we must pass by the sarcophagi and mosaics and menologies of Byzantine art, with all their curious svm- bolic traditions, and come down to the time of Giotto, the true beginner of the Italian Renaissance. Here is a man who knows how to paint. We may laugh at his id~as of perspective, and compare the limbs and garments of his figures to those of the wooden puppets in a Noahs ark. We may observe that when he wishes to represent a figure lying down he simply tips it over on its side or face without breaking a joint or relaxing a muscle. But, for all that, we can not help seeing that his people are alive; they may not have blood visibly coursing beneath the skin, like Titians, but they have thought and feeling in their faces, and they are really taking part in events of the greatest importance to them and to us. Look at this Nativity. copied from one of the frescoes in the lonely, neglect- ed Chapel of the Arena in Padua. Impos- sible rocks, the most childish attempt at a stable, an absurdly somnolent Joseph, five ligneous sheep, and a goat like a unicorn; but above the roof there is the music of heaven, and within the narrow stall there is the holiest joy of earth, for the virgin mother is reaching out her arms to fold her new-born child for the first tinme to her breast. There is a tenderness of love, a wondering solicitude, in her face and in her touch that none but a great poet could ever have conceived. Three of the angels in the sky are lifting up their hands in adoration Glory to God in the highest; one of them is stooping to tell the shep- herds his glad tidings of good-will to men; but the fifth angel bends with fold- ed hands of silent reverence above the couch in the stable; and we feel that here indeed is peace on earth, a peace of which every mothers heart knows some- thing. This was the best that the fourteenth century could do, and for a hundred years afterward the world saw nothing else so good. Fra Angelico touched the Nativ- ity with his own purity and reverence of spirit; but he needed the vision of para- dise to call forth his best work. He was never quite at home on earth, even in Bethlehem. Masaccio might have inter- preted the scene with a power even be- yond that of Giotto, but in his too brief life he was not called, or did not choose to treat this subject. And the other paint- ers merely lent themselves, as devotees of the growing worship of Mary, to the adornment of the Virgins crown and robe with gems, and her transformation from the lowly maiden mother into a queenly figure fitted to take her place aniong god- desses as a sort of Christian Juno. It is enough to mention in this connection the work of Simone Martini, Gentile da Fa- briano, and the Murani. Only a jewellers show-window could reproduce the opulent glories of their pictures. But about 1420 there came an orphan lad into the Carmehite monastery at Flor- ence who was destined at once to bring much discredit upon the brotherhood and to do great service to art. His brush was delightfully natural, but his life carried the pursuit of nature somewhat to excess. Impulsive, ardent, pleasure - loving, irre- sponsiblea bad boy in a cowlBrother Fihippo Lippi was continually breaking convent bounds, undertaking wild adven- tures, falling into evil company, and do- ing that which he ought not to have done. But lie did some things which he ought to have done, and through all his wander- ings lie must have preserved somewhere in his turbulent breast a spring of pure imagination, for no man has painted the Nativity with more delicacy and senti- ment than he. The Virgin in a Wood, which is one of the treasures of the Ber- lin Museum, shows us what beautiful work the old monk could do. I remember well my first sight of this picture. Hitherto the old masters had seemed unattract THE NATIVITY IN ART. 15 ive and dry. And this little panel of som- painters. The scene, the locality, the his- bre green with its few spots of light torical accessories of the event are disre- could anything be more stupid, or less garded. The Virgins loving adoration worthy of its stars in the catalogue? So for her Saviour, wbo has come into the I thought as I first looked at it; but as I world as her son, becomes the central passed it again and again, and began to idea. It is not the Mater Dei of theology, linger a little before it, tryin~~ to reach its but the Mater Pia of the human heart. secret, something in the slender grace, the Every mother tbinks her child wonder- sweet humility, of this virgins figure, the ful, but most of all this mother, who be- simplicity of the child looking up from holds the Light of the World lying in her its bed of wild flowers (each one painted cradle. As Jeremy Taylor sweetly says, as carefully as if the artist loved it), a She blesses Him, she worships Him, she breath ofpoetry from the dark cool shad- thanks Him that He would be born of ows of the wood fascinated me more and her. more, and at last I appreciated my first Sometimes the Virgins adoration is of- old master. fered in the shady stillness of a grove, as This picture is a beautiful illustration in this picture of Brother Filippos, while of a mode of treating the Nativity which the Father beads above, and the Sacred afterward became a favorite with Italian Dove flies downward, and St. Bernard THE ADORATION OF THE SHEPHERDS. MURILLO. 16 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. kneels in the background, with young St. John beside him. Sometimes the scene is in a gardei~, as in Francias most love- ly picture, where the Virgin stands alone before her babe, with hands crossed upon her breast, and behind her a paling cov- ered with roses, in all~sio~~ to the verse in Canticles, My love is a garden. in- closed. Sometimes the angels, visible to us but invisible to the mother, come flut- tering around and kneeliiig to the child. And sometimes a row of saints and the donors of the picture join in the worship. It was thus that Perugino delighted to paint this subject; and his saintly specta- tors, with all their heads a little on one side, and their hands reverently folded, seem alijiost as if they belonged to the scene. Mrs. Jameson has classed these pictures of the Adoring Mother among the Ma- donnas rather than among the Nativities. But I venture to think she is wrong in this, for certainly in such pictures as I have mentioned the germ inal idea is the wonder of the Incarnation; and not only Marys adoration, hut our own is directed to the divine babe. Indeed, it seems to me that there is a fundamental error in Mrs. Jamesons general concep- tion of the place which the Nativity occu- pies in art. She makes it belong to the ~Legends of the Madonna, instead of treating it as part of the Life of our Lord. I know the dividing line between these two cycles is slight and difficult to trace, and doubtless many of the pictures of the Nativity were painted more for the sake of the Virgin Mary than for the sake of her child. But still, art in its pure begin- flings, as we %~ave already seen, and in its highest development, as we shall hereafter see, was true to itself and to the gospel story in making the divine child the cen- tral figure, and waking our reverence for the holy, mother chiefly by the beauty of h~r reverence for her son. We may find another illustration of this in Luca della Robbias exquisite bass- relief in Verona. This artist was the le- gitimate successor of Brother Fihippo, working not on canvas, but in glazed ter- ra-cotta. He caught the half-humorous half-pathetic beauty of infantile faces as no one else has ever done before or since. There is the same sentimental delicacy in this hit of pottery that we saw in Lippis picture, and the kneeling Virgin might almost have been studied from the paint- ing. The same slender neck, fair waving hair, long lingers sensitive to the very tips, and face of gentle, almost tremulous delight. But Lucas Christ - child has more life and beauty thaix Fihippos. Deli- cate fleecy clouds float above His head. A family of loveliest angels, all alike, yet different as children of the same house. cluster about the Heavenly Father; arid lest we should forget that they are sing- mg, Luca has given us the score of the Gloria in Excelsis in the centre of the panel. With the secoiid generation of Flor- entine painters we come to the period which was most fertile in pictures of the Nativity. Pollaj nob, Ghirlandajo, Botti- celhi, and the whole goldsmith school brought a iiew knowledge of anatomy and technique, a new conception of humanity, arid a new liberty of treatment into the field of Christian art. They did not hesi- tate to introduce details of classical archi- tecture and portraits of living persons into their sacred pictures. They took great pains to n)ake the ox and the ass more life-hike, and filled the background with glimpses of fair Italian landscape: cities, towns, vineyards, rivers, mount- ains, ferry-boats, flocks of birds, compa- nies of pilgrims, draw the eye far into the distance, and seem to bring the birth of Christ down into the midst of every-day life. There is a picture by Ghirlandajo which illustrates very clearly the average merits and defects of this school in its treatment of the Nativity. Two Corinthii- an pillars, evidently brought from some ruined temple, support a rude thatched roof, beneath which the ox and the ass are sheltered. A richly carved sarcoph- agus, with a Latin inscription, does duty for the manger. The Christ-child lies on the ground in front of it, and the mo- ther worships Him. But she does not quite forget herself. There is less ecstasy and more dignity iii her look than Fra Lippi or Luca della. Robbia would have given her. And yet she is womanly and beautiful. In the foreground there ai~e two kneeling figures, and a third standing behind them with a lamb in his arms. These represent tIme shepherds. But they are unmistakable citizens of Florence portraits (and excellent portraits too), as we can see at a glance. They are grave, cultivated, worldly-wise gentlemen of the Medicean type, knowing about as much of sheep as the first well-dressed acquaint- THE HOLY FAMILY. DEFREGGER C--- VIRGIN AND CHILD WITH ANGELS. A STUDY BY BOUGUEREAC. By permission of the American Art Association. K I 2K~ V K 4. ~\ 1 ~- 67 THE NATIVITY IN ART. 19 ance whom you may meet in an after- noon walk on Fifth Avenue. It seems strange to us to see them assisting, as the French say, at the Nativity. It would be a bold painter to-day who would ven- ture to introduce Mr. Cyrus P. Thompson or the Hon. Augustus Jones into a scene from the sacred history, and his picture would be well laughed at. But Ghirlan- dajo did not think it strange, nor did the Florentines laugh at him. Was it be- cause they had a lower idea of the sa- cred event, or was it because they had a higher idea of the dignity and worth of humanity than prevails in the nineteenth century? At all events, neither he nor his contemporaries scrupled to represent the merchants and bankers of Florence or Perugia or Bologna as participants in the scenes of the life of Christ. But the most noticeable feature in this picture of Ghirlandajos is the background. It is connected with the foreground by the figure of Joseph, who kneels in the centre, and, turning around, looks out beyond the columns into a rich landscape. Follow- ing his look, we see a distant city, a rocky hill-side where the angel is appearing to the shepherds, a Roman causeway, and a triumphal arch, through which a long procession is rapidly approaching. Horse- men and footmen, with fluttering robes and rich caparisonsa royal escort for the Kings of Orientcome sweeping onward to the lowly shed. It seems as if the whole world were hastening to give a joy- ful welcome to the Prince of Peace. It is thus that the painter, a citizen of rich and prosperous and luxurious Florence, has expressed his conception of the meaning of Christmas. In Umbria another school of artists was at work developing a very different ideal of the Nativity. Silence, mystery, and a deep devotional feeling pervade the pic- tures of Niccolo Alunno, Perugino, and Francia. The very atmosphere is filled with the clear softness of twilight, and a tender, half-dreamy look rests on all the faces. Venice cherished still another ideal. Stronger, richer, and more earthly in their imagination, the Bellini and their disciples painted the Madonna with less of maidenly grace and more ~f matronly dignity. The Child lies upon her lap or on a marble balustrade before her, and the mother looks at Him with a face in which there is hardly a trace of deep emotion. She is proud, classical, almost indifferent, Yor~. LXXII.No. 427.2 a female Christopher (Christ-bearer), and the splendid infant sleeps serenely, or listens with royal approval to the angels who make music for Him with guitar and violin. In Padua the painters were even more influenced by classical models and the spirit of the Renaissance than in Venice. A careful study of their pictures is as good as a lesson in Greek and Roman antiquities; but, with the exception of Mantegna in his simpler moods, they have little to tell us about Bethlehem and the wonderful birth. Lorenzo di Credi, of Florence, combined, more than any other man, the excellences of these different schools, and his numerous Nativities are among the best that ever have been painted. The appearance of the great triumvirate Leonardo da Vinci, Michael Angelo, and Raphael Sanzio marks the highest period of Italian art. Each of these men was his own master, although each of them owed much to his instructors. Michael Angelo had perhaps the mightiest and most origi- nal genius of the three. But he has left no picture of the Nativity. It is doubtful whether his proud and sombre spirit could have entered into its meaning. His so- called Holy Family in the Uffizzi is harsh and unpleasant. Raphael, the apostle of sweetness and light, the wor- shipper of beauty, the wonderful scholar of Perugino, who so soon surpassed his teacher, and yet in his best work never en- tirely lost the devout and reverent spirit of his early Umbrian trainingRaphael painted the Nativity but seldom. Most of his pictures of the Holy Family centre in the Madonna rather than in the infant, or belong to a later time in the life of Jesus, when He stands as a child at His mothers knee, or plays with the young St. John. The Adoration of the Shepherds~ in the Vatican is painted in his worst and most affected manner. The shepherds are ab- surd Arcadians and the angels are sancti- fied fairies. If we wish to understand how Raphael could have painted the Na- tivity at his best, we must go back to his earlier work, and look at a picture like the Madonna del Granduca. This is not a Madonna, after all, but a picture of the in- fant Jesus and His mother. I do not feel that any excuse is needed for presenting this illustration in an article on the Na- tivity. It has the true Christmas spirit; not Christmas on the street or in the church, but Christmas joy and peace in 20 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. the mothers heart, and Christmas blessing in the eyes of the Child. How sweet and virginal is Marys downcast face! Ecce ctncilla Doinini! The power of the Most High has overshadowed her, subdued and uplifted, humbled and glorified her, and the Holy Child in her arms presses His cheek lovingly against her shoulder, and looks out gently but somewhat sadly on the world which He has come to save. This little panel is worth a hundred of Raphaels Entombments or Transfig- urations. We do not wonder that the Grand Duke Ferdinand III., who bought it in 1799, became so fond of it that he car- ried it about with him wherever he went, even into exile, and believed that it was a talisman of blessing to his life. It is common to trace in this picture, which is among the earliest of Raphaels Florentine period, the influence of Peru- gino. And any one who has become famil- iar with the tender and devout manner of the old Umbrian can not fail to recognize it here. But, unless I am mistaken, there is also a touch of a more subtle and po- tent influence in this Madonna del Gran- duca. The mighty spirit of Leonardo has exercised its fascination upon the young Raphael, and lie has given to the Virgins face something of that intellectual refine- ment, that secret spiritual charm, which is so wonderful in the Madonna of the Lily. The Christ-child also is painted as Leonardo might have imagined Him, with an unfathomable depth of thought- fulness in His serene eyes. A thousand times have I regretted that Leonardo did not leave a picture of the Nativity. His Adoration of the Magi in the Uffizzi is unfinished. His Vierge aux Rochers ia the Louvre is unavail- able for our present purpose. And so we must content ourselves with an illustra- tion from Bernardino Luini, his noblest disciple. But surely even the wise master himself could hardly have done better work than this picture by dear little Ber- nard. It is a true Nativity, idealized enough to lift it above the level of mere photographic literalism, and yet free from the slightest taint of affectation or display. The pilgrims flask and bag tell the story of the long journey to Bethlehem. The lovely angels bring the air of heaven into the rude stable. The Virgins figure is sweet and pure beyond description. And Joseph is worthy to kneel beside her. For this last grace especially we thank Luini. Most of the artists have treated Jo- sepli with scant respect. They have rep- resented him as ~n ugly and decrepit old man. They have shoved him away into a corner, or propped him up against the wail, ridiculously fast asleep. They have almost used him as a comic figure in the scene. The ox and the ass are often more venerable. But Luini, with better author- ity in the gospel narrative and the ear- liest traditions of Christian art, has given us a noble and manly Joseph, with a face which corresponds to the dignity and gen- erosity of his conduct. I do not know a lovelier, more serene, and reverent picture of the Nativity than this; and it loses none of its simplicity and sincerity by the touch of intellectual beauty in the Virgins face, which Luini could only have learned from Leonardo. But, it may be asked, is such a picture as this true to nature and history? Have we any right to imagine so much beauty and grace in a Jewish peasant maiden? Was not the stable at Bethlehem a dark, mean place, and the Nativity, like every birth, a scene of anguish and confusion? Is there not a touch of falsehood in thus idealizing it and turning it into poetry? If the painter is strictly accurate and liter- ally truthful, will he not feel bound to paint a common girl of the Hebrew peo- ple for the Virgin, a Gahilean carpenter for Joseph, an ordinary Eastern cattle shed for the stable, and an uncomely in- fant for the Christ-child? Indeed, we may go further, and ask whether the liter- ally truthful artist will not feel bound to avoid the Nativity altogether as an un- seemly subject. And certainly, if the truthful artist is such an idiot as that, he will do well to avoid it, for his touch will only degrade and spoil. Exclude all poetry from the treatment of the Nativity! Why, the very heart and life of it is poetrynot poetic fiction, but poetic fact. The Virgin Mary, peasant though she be, is the descendant of a kingly house more ancient and more honored than any of our modern mon- archies. She is the crown of womanhood, the flower of virgins, the lily among thorns, the one true princess among Eves daughters. We bring no dismal idola- tries to her shrine, but hands full of white blossoms, and hearts full of sweet thoughts, and words of praise and love for the beau- ty of her pure motherhood. Ave 2tfaria, gratia plena! Dominus tecurn, benedicta THE NATIVITY IN ART. 21 tu in mulieribus! If the angel of God spake thus to her in the humble home at Nazareth, was she not royal by divine grace as well as by human birth? And shall we wonder that the hour of her xvon- drous exaltation at Bethlehem has gath- ered to itself melodious songs, and angelic forms, and fair colors, and supernal light, and all grace and loveliness from every age of Christian faith? Read again the opening chapters of St. Lukes gospel, and see if they are not overflowing with the po- etry of the Nativity. The heavenly mes- sengers who announce Chrisfs coming, the old priest Zacharias and his wife Eliz- abeth, the venerable Anna and Simeon waiting in the temple, Mary herself in her maidenly simplicity, all speak in po- etry by a spontaneous impulse. A new star blossoms in the celestial fields, a new music rings through the vault of night, a new worship calls the shepherds from their flocks into the secret shrine of incar- nate Divinity. And all this, so far from seeming strange and untruthful to us, must appear only natural, and the strong- est confirmation of the truth of the nar- rative. For if the Nativity is anything at all, if there is any reality in it, it is surely the one supreme event of the world, and not otherwise could the story of it be told. As Horace Bushnell has said: Having wings in the spiritual out- fit of our nature, it would be a kind of ce- lestial impropriety if Gods spirit did not spread them here. Why, the very ground ought to let forth its reverberated music, and all the choirs and lyres and ringing cymbals of the creation, between the two horizons and above, ought to be discours- ing hymns, and pouring down their joy, even as the stars do light. I hold, therefore, that no painter can enter into the spirit of the Nativity, or help us to understand the reality of it, who does not feel its poetry, and rise above the dead literal ism of painting a faithful description of Oriental costume and Gal- ilean peasants and Syrian sheep, into the mystery and ideal beauty of the Holy Night. What shall we say, then, of Correggios La Notte, that third treasure of the Dresden Gallery, and most popular of all pictures of the Nativity? There is no crude realism here. It is an indubitable poem on canvas. But we may still question a little whether the poetry is exactly of the right kind. It is too lyrical; the move- ment is overstrained; it lacks repose and delicacy of rhythm. This big shepherd, with his violent gesture of wonder, this woman with contracted brows and hand lifted to shade the dazzle of light, these wonderfully agile celestial limbs vibrating in ecstasya man who truly believed in the Nativity, and felt it most profoundly, would have left these out. But Correggio was too excitable, too sensuous, too fond of showing his skill in foreshortening and contrast of light and shade. He was a wonderful artist, but his genius was not pure, sincere, reverent, and therefore there is a touch of affectation in his work. He is like a preacher who tries to say witty or pretty things in a sermon on the life of Christ. We detect the false note, and it spoils our devotion. But, for all that, the heart of this picture the mother half embracing, half wor- shipping her childremains a marvel of beauty, and the world has a right to love it. It was no new or original idea to make all the light of the stable come from the divine babe. We find it in the Arabic Gospel of the Infancy; and one of the fathers says, When Christ was born His body shone like the sun when it rises. Hugo Vander Goes and many other paint- ers have used the thought. But none has done it so beautifully as Correggio. The glory that streams from the infant is a white, brilliant, supernatural radiance, manifestly of heaven; and away behind the hills the dawning of the earth-light looks cold and gray. We must turn now from Italy, where we have traced the treatment of the Na- tivity from the simplest to the most con- summate art, to the Northern countries. The early Flemish and German schools of painting afford many examples of the way in which this subject was conceived by the Teutonic mind. I do not think a better illustration can be found than the centre piece of the famous triptych in the Berlin Museum, which is now commonly attrib- uted to Roger Vander Weyden, the greatest pupil of the Van Eycks. The two wings of this painting represent, with great vigor and simplicity, the legendary appearance of tIme Virgin and Child to the Emperor Augustus, and the three Magi worshipping their star, which wears the form of a radi- ant infant in the sky. The central panel is a repetition of the familiar theme of the Adoring Mother. But how different is the manner of the painter here from that 22 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. to which we have grown accustomed in Italy! Here are the hardest forms, the most ungraceful outlines. Definition is carried to excess, and lucidity is sacrificed to sharpness. One feels tempted to adapt the venerable pun of Pope Gregory the Great, and say that the picture is full, not of angels, but of angles. Why is Marys robe so stiff and her attitude so ungrace- ful? Why is Joseph so thin and so crook- ed? Why have the little angels, with their colored wings, such heavy woollen gar- ments? Simply because the painter lived in the North, surrounded by Gothic influ- ences, and not in the South, where the reigning spirit of classic art filled the at- mosphere with a subtle sense of physical beauty. If Ghirlandajo had been a Flem- ing instead of a Tuscan, he would have painted just such pictures as this, with Middleburg instead of Florence in the background, and angularburghersinstead of graceful citizens for his models. And even if he had done his best he could not have surpassed old Roger Vander Weyden in the reverent sincerity of his thought, or the patient, faithful skill of his execution. Look at this Herr Schatzmeister Blado- lin, at whose cost the picture was painted for the Middleburg church, and who kneels so gravely in the foreground. Does he not show us how an honest, pious treasurer of that day actually appeared,how he thought (and how all good Christian souls ought to think) of the Nativity? And can we not feel the tender simplicity of the virgin mother as she kneels before her helpless, shining babe? Surely this picture has a charm, a loveliness, of its own, although we may have to wait a little while before it finds us; and Liibke is right when he describes it by a word which has no equiv- alent in English, gemiithlieh. In Albert Diirer the influences which controlled and moulded the development of German art reached their culmina- tion, and in his work we see at once its weakness and its strength. He was, be- yond question, a mighty genius, but al- ways and indubitably a Teutonic genius, never breaking, never seeking to break, the narrow bounds of his native environ- ment. He often signed his pictures A German, or A Nurembergerpatriotic but superfluous, for no one who looks at them needs to be told where they were produced. They are genuine; they smack of the soil. Thus, in all his representa- tions of the Nativity and the Holy Fain- ilyand they are manythe Virgin is a simple Nuremberg mother in her house- wifes dress, the Child is just such an in- fant as Durer might have seen in his neighbors cradle, and the landscape is a wonderful reproduction of what the trav- eller may find to-day in the quiet corners of Franconia. He treats the theme with what Mr. Comyns Can has well called an unflinching realism, which often leads him into ugliness, and sometimes into triviality. We can see some indications of this tendency in the accompanying en- graving. The characteristic trait is do- mcsticitya thoroughly German quality and one certainly poetic enough to be worthily expressed in the most perfect art, but needing always to be guarded against falling into mere homeliness, which is quite another thing. Diirers pictures of the Christ-child and the Vir- gin always remind me of the old German Christmas carols. We may smile at them, but we can not help loving them. Rubens and the later masters of North- em art often painted the Nativity, or at least they gave that title to many of their pictures. But I have yet to see one of them which has anything sacred about it except thenaine. Even Rembrandt, whose etching-needle has so marvellously illu- mined some of the later seenes from the life of Christ, is coarse when he comes into the stable at Bethlehem. He can not feel the miracle of the Incarnation. And when we come down to Italy at the end of the sixteenth century, we find art completely secularized and degraded. The spirit of devotion, which Raphael and his contemporaries could at least appreciate, although they may not always have felt it personally, has now completely van- ished, and the painters are concerned only with art for arts sake. They give us chiar-oscuro, and modelling, and won- derful seenic effectsbrawny shepherds, self-conscious virgins, sentimental an gels, dazzling contrasts of light and shade, the Gloria on a brass bandbut the inspiration, the divine light, the sweet music of heaven, are gone, and the birth of Jesus has become an unreality. In Spain, however, the spirit of sacred art still lived, and it flowered about the middle of the seventeenth century in the lastof the great religious painters, Bartolo- m~ Esteb~n Murillo. He was a child of the people, and a painter for the people of all time. His pictures are known through-. THE NATIVITY IN ART. 23 out the world, and more highly prized Nicolas Poussin and the classicists of than those of any other man except Ra- France? They painted it like a scene phaeL He could paint the ragged chil- from the Roman mythology. To Sir dren of Seville, and the devout monks Joshua Reynolds and the portrait school who were his companions in works of of England? His well-known Nativity charity, and the glad angels who throng- might as well be called a Portrait of a ed the heaven of his holy thoughts, with Lady and Child. It is probably not too an equal skill. He was humble, reverent, daring to say that it is the worst picture humane, believing, living well up to the he ever painted. To Teniers and Jan light that was given him, loving his art Steen and the Dutchmen? They were in only less than he loved his faith and his love with vulgarity, and could not see the fellow-men, doing his duty as well as he difference between a peasant and a boor. could, and dying in honorable poverty. To Watteau and Boucher and the chil- The contrast between him and his great dren of frivolity? We can hardly expect rival, Velasquez, has been admirably de- anything serious from butterflies. To scribed by Mr. Charles B. Curtis in his Horace Vernet and the clever realists? catalogue of their works, and lie sums it Palestine of to-day is not a holy land save all up by saying, A few admired Velas- to the heart of faith, and the mother of quez, but all loved Murillo. Christ was certainly not a Bedouin. This was the man who should touch One pale gleam of light comes to us the Nativity once more with the hand of from Germany. Overbeck and his disci- faith and love, as the earliest artists touch- piesthose strange long-haired Nazarenes ed it, but with an incomparably greater who lived together in the deserted nionas- skilL Look at this picture of the Adora- tery of San Isidoro at Rome somewhat as tion of the Shepherds, from the museum the brotherhood of painter- monks had at Madrid. No engraver, however skill- once lived together in San Marco at Flor- fal and patient, can hope to render any- encetried to bring back into the nine- thing more than the cold shadow and teenth century the spirit of Fra Angelico. suggestion of its wonderful effect. It is They were religious painters in the true a miracle of paintingwarm, rich, full of sense of the word, and in their hands the a soft and mellow charm, satisfying the Nativity was treated with reverent feel- eye with its depth of light and color ing, if not with striking power. Itten~ and at the same time it overflows with bachs Holy Family with the Lamb, the purest and most sacred feeling. See and Carl Millers lovely picture with the this old shepherd, with his toil-hardened angel in the foreground playing on the feet and his rugged head; he does not cx- viol, have been deservedly admired and aggerate his emotion and fling his arms (the latter at least) widely circulated in about like Correggios giant, but the awe photograph and engraving. But the and tenderness of his emotion are mani- movement was artificial, and the school fest in every line of his figure as he kneels of the revival is now extinct. with rude, unconscious grace before the The English pre-Raphaehites might new-born Prince of Peace. And how nat- have done something in the painting of ural, how infantile, yet how serenely di- the Nativity which should he worthy to vine and luminous, is the Christ-child, live and be loved. Ruskin predicted, a over whom His mother bends with mm- year or two ago, that Mr. Holrnan Hunts gled solicitude and adoration! Surely lately finished picture of a closely kin- there is something more in this picture dred subjectthe Flight into Egypt than what Ruskin slightingly calls a would be the greatest religious picture brown gleam of gypsy Madonnahood. of our time. But then Ruskin says also It is a perfect illustration of the old French that by no expedient could England Noel: have repressed in him more than it has Dieu parmy les pastoreaux, repressed, by no abnegation could she Sous Ia cr~che des toreaux, have received less from him than she Thins les champs a voulu naistre, has received. And it is certain, be the non parny les arrovs cause what it may, that the promise of Des grands princes ci des roys ,, the pre - Raphaelites has hitherto been Lui des plus grands roys le inaistre. much beyond their performance in reli And now whither shall we turn to look gious art. for our later pictures of the Nativity? To Let us take-somewhat at a venture, I 24 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. must confesstwo illustrations from liv- ing painters whose great success in other lines has won them the widest popularity, Bouguereau, of Paris, and Defregger, of Munich. These pictures are not, strictly speaking, Nativities, but they are near enough to illustrate our theme, andalas that it should be true !our most fatuous painters no longer show us the Holy Night. Of the two, Defreggers has un- doubtedly more dignity and more human- ity. The head of Joseph, poring over the prophecies of the Messiah, is grand and strong. The Virgins face has great beau- ty of a not ignoble type; she is thorough- ly maternal. But the Child utterly lacks the touch of divinity; the faint halo about His head is purely apologetic. Bouguereaus picture (engraved from the pen-and-ink sketch for a larger paint- ing) has a certain airy prettiness which captivates the eye at first, but which does not bear the test of thought and time. The child is only making believe to be asleep; and the angels come direct from Paristheir little fingers, so delicately curved backward from their instruments, have a distinctively Parisian air. One of them looks up from her itistrument as if -to say, Now isnt this sweet ? Anoth- er turns her head over her shoulder, prob- al)ly to see if her robe hangs gracefully. It is a pretty little scene from a pretty lit- tle play. Presently the actors will change their costumes and give us a more modern comedy. It is an open question whether such re- ligious art as this is better than none at all. But it is not an open question wlieth- er America can boast herself over France and Germany in this regard. For when we come to look on this side of the sea for a picture of the Nativity we find simply nothing. One of the most remarkable and certainly one of the most humiliating, incidents in the history of modern art was the utter failure of the prize competi- tion instituted two years ago by Harper and Brothers for an illustration appro- priate to Christmas. It is true that the coiitest was limited to Americans not over twenty-seven years of age. But then at the two trials some six hundred drawings were sent in, and one would surely think that among so many young devotees of art there must be some able to enter into the spirit of the Nativity and to express it with reasonable lucidity. On the con- trary, an able committee of judges could not find a single one of the designs above the level of sheer mediocrity. The col- lection, as a mass, was an indescribable farrago of absurdities gathered from the whole range of figure and landscape art mountains, and rivers, and flowers, and birds, and young women in boats, and children standing by the fire-place, and cats, and reindeer, and everything under heaven but the Nativityin short, such a medley as one may see any day in turn- ing over a collection of Christmas cards. A result like this may well make us ques- tion whether Mr. F. D. Millet was not right when lie said, in reviewing the com- petition, The preseiit popularity of art, to which we refer as a sure sign that we are soon to have a national school of paiuters, is only the superficial result of an enthusiasm based on fashion, and we niust look much further and deeper for the real gauge of the possibilities of our nation in the direction of the fine arts. For my own part, I believe that true greatness in art will only come with a re- vival of moral earnestness and faith. Brihl - iant coloring and correct drawing, splen- did landscapes and clever figure - paint- ings, we may haveindeed, we have them now; but the best art, even from a tech- nical point of view, will not come to us until men see that the one thing worth toiling for is the perfect expression of the noblest thoughts and feelings. And what better test of this could be found than the ability to enter into the meaning of the Nativity? Is the true spirit of Christmas deadovergrown and choked with trivi- alities? Must we forever go back to Mu- rub and Luini and the old masters to catch the light of that serene and holy gladness of Bethlehem? Men paint what they love. Surely there are still some who love the Christ-child shining in His lowly cradle, and the wonder of virginal maternity bending above Him. Surely there is a great and glad welcome waiting for the artist who shall lead us again into the radiant presence of the infant Jesus, and make us sharers in the joy of the Holy Night. INDIAN SUMMER. (Copyright, 1885, by W. D. Howolls.) XVII. IN the ensuing fortnight a great many gayeties besides the Egyptian Ball took place, and Colville went wherever he and Isnogene were both invited. He declined the quiet dinners which he liked, and which his hearty appetite and Isis habit of talk fitted him to enjoy, and accepted invitations to all sorts of evenings and At Homes, where dancing occupied a modest corner of the card, and usurped the chief place in the pleasures. At these places it was mainly his business to see Imogene danced with by others, but sometimes he waltzed with her himself, and then he was complimented by people of his own age, who had left off dancing, upon Isis vigor. They said they could not stand that sort of thing, though they supposed, if you kept yourself in practice, it did not come so hard. One of his hostesses, who had made a party for her daughters, told him that he was an example to everybody, and that if middle-aged people at home min- gled more in the amusements of the young, American society would not be the silly, insipid, boy-and-girl affair that it was now. He went to these places in the character of a young man, but he was not readily accepted or recognized in that character. They gave him frumps to take out to sup- per, mothers and maiden aunts, and if the mothers were youngish, they threw off on him, and did not care for Isis talk. At one of the parties Imogene seemed to become aware for the first time that the lapels of his dress-coat were not faced with silk. Why dont you have them so ? she asked. All the other young men have. And you ought to wear a boutonniere. Oh, I think a man looks rather silly in silk lapels at nsy He arrested him- self, and then continued: Ill see wisat the tailor can do for me. In the mean time, give me abud out of your bouquet. How sweet you are! she sighed. You do the least thing so that it is ten times as good as if any one else did it. The same evening, as he stood leaning against a doorway, behind Imogene and a young fellow with whom she was begin- ning a quadrille, he heard her taking him to task. Why do you say Sir to Mr. Col- yule ? Well, I know the English laughs at us for doing it, and say its like servants; but I never feel quite right answering just Yes and No to a man of his age. This was one of the Inglehart boys, whom he met at nearly all of these parties, and not all of whom were so respectful. Some of them treated him upon an old-boy thseo- ry, joking him as freely as if he were one of themselves, laughing his antiquated no- tions of art to scorn, but condoning them because he was good-natured, and because a man could not help being of his own epochs anyway. They put a caricature of him among the rest on the walls of their trattoria, where he once dined withs them. Mrs. Bowen did not often see him when lie went to call upon Imogene, and she was not at more than two or three of the par. ties. Mrs. Amsden came to chaperon the girl, and apparently suffered an increase of unrequited curiosity in regard to his re- lations to the Bowen household, and the extraordinary development of his social activity. Colville not only went to all those evening parties, but he was in con- tinual movement during the afternoon at receptions and at days, of which he be- gan to think eacis lady had two or three. Here lie drank tea, cup after cup, in reck- less excitement, and at night, when he came home from the dancing parties, drop- ping with fatigue, he could not sleep till toward morning. He woke at the usual breakfast hour, and then went about drowsing throughout the day till the tea began again in the afternoon. He fell asleep wisenever lie sat down, not only in the reading-room at Viesseuxs, where lie disturbed the people over their newspapers by Isis demonstrations of somnolence, but even at church, whither lie went one Sun- day to please Imogene, and started awake during tIme service with the impression that the clergyman had been making a joke. Everybody but Imogene was smiling. At tIme cafChe slept without scruple, selecting a corner seat for the purpose, and propor- tioning his buonamano to the indulgence of the qiovane. He could not tell how long he slept at these places, but sometimes it seemed to Isim hours. One day lie went to see Imogene, and while Effie Bowen stood prattling to him as he sat waiting for Imogene to come in, he faded light-hicadedhy away from him-

INDIAN SUMMER. (Copyright, 1885, by W. D. Howolls.) XVII. IN the ensuing fortnight a great many gayeties besides the Egyptian Ball took place, and Colville went wherever he and Isnogene were both invited. He declined the quiet dinners which he liked, and which his hearty appetite and Isis habit of talk fitted him to enjoy, and accepted invitations to all sorts of evenings and At Homes, where dancing occupied a modest corner of the card, and usurped the chief place in the pleasures. At these places it was mainly his business to see Imogene danced with by others, but sometimes he waltzed with her himself, and then he was complimented by people of his own age, who had left off dancing, upon Isis vigor. They said they could not stand that sort of thing, though they supposed, if you kept yourself in practice, it did not come so hard. One of his hostesses, who had made a party for her daughters, told him that he was an example to everybody, and that if middle-aged people at home min- gled more in the amusements of the young, American society would not be the silly, insipid, boy-and-girl affair that it was now. He went to these places in the character of a young man, but he was not readily accepted or recognized in that character. They gave him frumps to take out to sup- per, mothers and maiden aunts, and if the mothers were youngish, they threw off on him, and did not care for Isis talk. At one of the parties Imogene seemed to become aware for the first time that the lapels of his dress-coat were not faced with silk. Why dont you have them so ? she asked. All the other young men have. And you ought to wear a boutonniere. Oh, I think a man looks rather silly in silk lapels at nsy He arrested him- self, and then continued: Ill see wisat the tailor can do for me. In the mean time, give me abud out of your bouquet. How sweet you are! she sighed. You do the least thing so that it is ten times as good as if any one else did it. The same evening, as he stood leaning against a doorway, behind Imogene and a young fellow with whom she was begin- ning a quadrille, he heard her taking him to task. Why do you say Sir to Mr. Col- yule ? Well, I know the English laughs at us for doing it, and say its like servants; but I never feel quite right answering just Yes and No to a man of his age. This was one of the Inglehart boys, whom he met at nearly all of these parties, and not all of whom were so respectful. Some of them treated him upon an old-boy thseo- ry, joking him as freely as if he were one of themselves, laughing his antiquated no- tions of art to scorn, but condoning them because he was good-natured, and because a man could not help being of his own epochs anyway. They put a caricature of him among the rest on the walls of their trattoria, where he once dined withs them. Mrs. Bowen did not often see him when lie went to call upon Imogene, and she was not at more than two or three of the par. ties. Mrs. Amsden came to chaperon the girl, and apparently suffered an increase of unrequited curiosity in regard to his re- lations to the Bowen household, and the extraordinary development of his social activity. Colville not only went to all those evening parties, but he was in con- tinual movement during the afternoon at receptions and at days, of which he be- gan to think eacis lady had two or three. Here lie drank tea, cup after cup, in reck- less excitement, and at night, when he came home from the dancing parties, drop- ping with fatigue, he could not sleep till toward morning. He woke at the usual breakfast hour, and then went about drowsing throughout the day till the tea began again in the afternoon. He fell asleep wisenever lie sat down, not only in the reading-room at Viesseuxs, where lie disturbed the people over their newspapers by Isis demonstrations of somnolence, but even at church, whither lie went one Sun- day to please Imogene, and started awake during tIme service with the impression that the clergyman had been making a joke. Everybody but Imogene was smiling. At tIme cafChe slept without scruple, selecting a corner seat for the purpose, and propor- tioning his buonamano to the indulgence of the qiovane. He could not tell how long he slept at these places, but sometimes it seemed to Isim hours. One day lie went to see Imogene, and while Effie Bowen stood prattling to him as he sat waiting for Imogene to come in, he faded light-hicadedhy away from him- 26 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. self on the sofa, as if he had been in his corner at the caf6. Then he was aware of some one saying Sb 1 and he saw Effie Bowen, with her finger on her lip, turned toward Imogene, a figure of beautiful de- spair in the doorway. He was all tucked up with sofa pillows, and made very com- fortable, by the child no doubt. She slipped out, seeing him awake, so as to leave him and Imogene alone, as she had apparently been generally instructed to do, and Imo- gene came forward. What is the matter, Theodore ? she asked, patiently. She had taken to call- ing him Theodore when they were alone. She owned that she did not like the name, but she said it was right she should call him by it, since it was his. She came and sat down beside him, where he had raised himself to a sitting posture, but she did not offer him any caress. Nothing, he answered. But this cli- mate is making me insupportably drowsy; or else the spring weather. Oh no; it isnt that, she said, with a slight sigh. He had left her in the mid- dle of a german at three oclock in the morning, but she now looked as fresh and lambent as a star. Its the late hours. Theyre killing you. Colville tried to deny it; his incoheren- cies dissolved themselves in a yawn, which he did not succeed in passing for a careless laugh. It wont do, she said, as if speaking to herself; no, it wont do. Oh yes, it will, Colville protested. I dont mind being up. Ive been used to it all my life on the paper. Its just some temporary thing. Itll come all right. Well, no matter, said Imogene. It makes you ridiculous, going to all those silly places, and Id rather give it up. The tears began to steal down her cheeks, and Colville sighed. It seemed to him that somebody or other was always crying. A man never quite gets used to the tearful- ness of women. Oh, dont mind it, he said. If you wish inc to go, I will go! Or die in the at- tempt, he added, with a smile. Imogene did not smile with him. I dont wish you to go any more. It was a mistake in the first place, and from this out I will adapt myself to you. And give up all your pleasures? Do you think I would let you do that? No, indeed! Neither in this nor in anything else. I will not cut off your young life in any way, Imogenenot shorten it or di- minish it. If I thought I should do that, or you would try to do it for me, I should wish I had never seen you. It isnt that. I know how good you are, and that you would do anything for me. Well, then, why dont you go to these fandangoes alone? I can see that you have me on your mind all the time, when Im with you. Oughtnt I ? Yes, up to a certain point, but not up to the point of spoiling your fun. I will drop in now and then, but I wont try to come to all of tl)em, after this; youll get along perfectly well with Mrs. Amsden, and I shall be safe from her for a while. That old lady has marked me for her prey: I can see it in her glittering eye- glass. I shall fall asleep some evening between dances, and then she will get it all out of me. Imogene still refused to smile. No; I shall give it up. I dont think its well, going so much without Mrs. Bowen. Peo- ple will begin to talk. Talk ? Yes; they will begin to say that I had better stay with her a little more, if she isnt well. Why, isnt Mrs. Bowen well ? asked Colville, with trepidation. No; shes miserable. Havent you no- ticed ? She sees me so seldom now. I thought it was only her headaches Its much more than that. She seems to be failing every way. The doctor has told her she ought to get away from Flor- ence. Colville could not speak; Imogene went on: Shes always delicate, you know. And I feel that all thats keeping her here now is the news from home that Iwere waiting for. Colville got up. This is ghastly! She mustnt do it ! How can you help her doing it? If she thinks anything is right, she cant help doing it. Who could I Colville thought to himself that he could have said; but he was silent. At the moment he was not equal to so much joke or so much truth; and Imogene went on: Shed be all the more strenuous about it if it were disagreeable; and rather than accept any relief from me, she would die. Is sheunkind to you I faltered Col- ville. INDIAN SUMMER. 27 She is only too kind. You can feel that shes determined to be sothat shes said she will have nothing to reproach her- self with; and she wont. You dont sup- pose Mrs. Bowen would be unkind to any one she disliked ? Ah, I didnt know, sighed Colville. The more she disliked them, the better she would use them. Its because our en- gagement is so distasteful to her that shes determined to feel that she did nothing to oppose it. But how can you tell that its distaste- ful, then ? She lets you feel it bynot saying anything about it. I cant see how She never speaks of you. I dont be- lieve she ever mentions your name. She asks me about the places where Ive been, and about the peopleevery one but you. Ifs very uncomfortable. Yes, said Colville, its uncomfort- able. And if I allude to letters from home, she merely presses her lips together. Ifs perfectly wretched. I see. Its I whom she dislikes, and I would do anything to please her. She must know that, mused Colville, aloud. Imogene I he exclaimed, with a sudden inspiration. Why shouldnt I go away I Go away ? she palpitated. What should I do ? The colors faded from his brilliant pro- posal. Oh, I only meant till something was settleddetermined---concluded; till this terrible suspense was over. He added, hopelessly, But nothing can be done I I proposed, said Imogene, that we should all go away. I suggested Via Reggiothe doctor said she ought to have sea airor Venice; but she wouldnt hea of it. No; we must wait. Yes, we must wait, repeated Col- yule, hollowly. Then nothing can be done ? Why, havent you said it I Oh yesyes. I cant go away, and you cant. But couldnt we do something --get up something I I dont know what you mean. I mean, couldnt weamuse her some- howhelp her to take her mind off her- self? Imogene stared at him rather a long time. Then, as if she had satisfied herself in her own mind, she shook her head. She wouldnt submit to it. No; she seems to take everything amiss that I do, said Colville. She has no right to do that, cried Imogene. Im sure that youre always considering her,and proposing to do things for her. I wont let you humble your- self, as if you had wronged her. Oh, I dont call it humbling. II should only be too happy if I could do anything that was agreeable to her. Very well, I will tell her, said the girl, haughtily. Shall you object to my joining you in your amusements, what- ever they are? I assure you I will be very unobtrusive. I dont understand all this, replied Colville. Who has proposed to exclude you? Why did you tell me anything about Mrs. Bowen, if you didnt want me to say or do something? I supposed you did; but Ill withdraw the offensive proposition, whatever it was. There was nothing offensive. But if you pity her so much, why cant you pity me a little ? I didnt know anything was the mat- ter with you. I thought that you were enjoying yourself Enjoying? Keeping you up at dances till you drop asleep whenever you sit down? And then coming home and talking to a person who wont mention your name! Do you call that enjoying? I cant speak of you to any one; and no one speaks to me If you like, I will talk to you on the subject, Colville essayed, in dreary jest. Oh, dont joke about it! This perpet- ual joking, I believe its that thats wearing me out. When I come to you for a little comfort in circumstances that drive me almost distracted, you want to amuse Mrs. Bowen; and when I ask to be allowed to share in the amusement, you laugh at me! If you dont understand it all, Pm sure I dont. Imogene ! No! Its very strange. Theres only one explanation. You dont care for me. Not care for you ! cried Colville, thinking of his sufferings in the past fort- night. And I would have made anyany sacrifice for you. At least I wouldnt have made you show yourself a mean and grudging person if you had come to me for a little sympathy. Oh, poor child ! he cried, and his heart ached with the sense that she really was 28 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. nothing but an unhappy child. I do sympathize with you, and I see how hard it is for you to manage with Mrs. Bowens dislike for me. But you mustnt think of it. I dare say it will be different; Ive no doubt we can get her to look at me in some brighter light. I He did not know what he should urge next, but he goaded his invention, and was able to de- clare that if they loved each other they need not regard any one else. This flight, when accomplished, did not strike him as of very original effect, and it was with a dull surprise that he saw it sufficed for her. No, no one! she exclaimed, accept- ing the platitude as if it were now uttered for the first time. She dried her eyes and smiled. I will tell Mrs. Bowen how you feel and what youve said, and I know she will appreciate your generosity. Yes,said Colville, pensively; theres nothing I wont propose doing for peo- ple. She suddenly clung to him, and would not let him go. Oh, what is the mat- ter ? she moaned afresh. I show out the worst that is in me, and only the worst. Do you think I shall always be so narrow-minded with you? I thought I loved you enough to be magnanimous. You are. It seemed to me that our lives together would be grand and large; and here I am, grovelling in the lowest self- ishness! I am worrying and scolding you because you wish to please some one that has been as good as my own mother to me. Do you call that noble ? Colville did not venture any reply to a demand evidently addressed to her own con science. But when she asked if he really thought he had better go away, he said, Oh no; that was a mistake. Because, if you do, you shallto pun- ish me. My dearest girl, why should I wish to punish you ? Because Ive been low and mean. Now I want you to do something for Mrs. Bowensomething to amuse her; to show that we appreciate her. And I dont want you to sympathize with me at all. When I ask for your sympathy, its a sign that I dont deserve it. Is that so? Oh, be serious with me. I mean it. And I want to beg your pardon for some- thing. Yes; whats that ? Cant you guess ? You neednt have your lapels silk- lined. You neednt wear boutouni~res. Oh, but Ive had the coat changed. No matter! Change it back! It isii~t for me to make you over. I must make myself over. Its my right, its my sacred privilege, to conform to you in every way, and I humble myself in the dust for having forgotten it at the very start. Oh, do you think I can ever be worthy of you? I will try; indeed I will! I shall not wear my light dresses another time! From this out, I shall dress more in keeping with you. I boasted that I should live to comfort and console you, to recompense you for the past, and what have I been doing? Wearying and degrading you Oh no, pleaded Colville. I am very comfortable. I dont need any com- pensation for the past. I needsleep. Im going to bed to-night at eight & clock, and I am going to sleep twenty-four hours. Then I shall be fresh for Mrs. Flemings ball. Im not going, said Imogene, briefly. Oh yes, you are. Ill come round to- morrow evening atid see. No. There are to be no more parties. Why? I cant endure them. She was looking at him and talking at him, but she seemed far aloof in the ab- straction of a sublime regret; she seemed puzzled, bewildered at herself. Colville got away. He felt the pathos of the confusion and question to which he left her, but lie felt himself powerless against it. There was but one solution to it all, and that was impossible. He could only grieve over her trouble, and wait; grieve for the irrevocable loss which made her trouble remote aud impersonal to him, and submit. XVIII. The young clergyman whom Colville saw talking to Imogene on his first even- ing at Mrs.Bowens had come back from Rome, where lie had been spending a month or two, and they began to meet at Palazzo Pinti again. If they got on well enough together, they did not get on very far. The suave house-priest manners of the young clergyman otlended Colville: he could hardly keep from sneering at his taste in art and books, which in fact was INDIAN SUMMER. 29 rather conventional; and no doubt Mr. Morton had his own reserves, under which he was perfectly civil, and only too def- erential, to Colville, as to an older man. Since his return, Mrs. Bowen had come back to her salon. She looked haggard; but she did what she could to look other- wise. She was always polite to Colville, and she was politely cordial with the cler- gyman. Sometimes Colville saw her driv- ing out with him and Effie; they appear- ed to make excursions; and he had an im- pression, very obscure, that Mrs. Bowen lent the young clergyman money; that he was a superstition of hers, and she a pa- tron of his; he must have been ten years younger than shenot more than twenty- five. The first Sunday after his return, Col- ville walked home with Mr. Waters from hearing a sermon of Mr. Mortons, which they agreed was rather well judged, and simply and fitly expressed. And he spoke with the authority of the priest, said the old minister. His Church alone of all the Protestant Churches has preserved that to its ministers. Some- times I have thought it was a great thinox Not always ? asked Colville, with a smile. These things are matters of mood rather than conviction with me, return- ed Mr. Waters. Once they affected me very deeply; but now I shall so soon know all about it that they dont move me. But at times I think that if I were to live my life over again, I would prefer to be of some formal, some inflexibly ritualized, religion. At solemnitiesweddings and funeralsI have been impressed with the advantage of the Anglican rite: it is the Church speaking to and for humanity or seems so, he added, with cheerful in- difference. Something in its favor, he continued, after a while, is the influence that every ritualized faith has with wo- men. If they apprehend those mysteries more subtly than we, such a preference of theirs must mean a good deal. Yes; the other Protestant systems are mens systems. Women must have form. They dont care for freedom. They appear to like the formalist, too, as well as the form, said Colville, with scorn not obviously necessary. Oh yes; they must have everything in the concrete, said the old gentleman, cheerfully. I wonder where Mr. Morton met Mrs. Bowen first, said Colville. Here, I think. I believe he had let- ters to her. Before you came I used often to meet him at her house. I think she has helped him with money at times. Isnt that rather an unpleasant idea? Yes, its disagreeable. And it places the ministry in a dependent attitude. But under our system its unavoidable. Young men devoting themselves to the ministry frequently receive gifts of money.~~ I dont like it, cried Colville. They dont feel it as others would. I didnt myself. Even at present I may be said to be living on charity. But some- times I have fancied that in Mr. Mortons case there might be peculiarly mitigating circumstances. What do you mean When I met him first at Mrs. Bowens I used to think that it was Miss Graham in whom he was interested__ I can assure you, interrupted Col- ville, that she was never interested in him. Oh no; I didnt suppose that, return- ed the old nian, tranquilly. And Ive since had reason to revise my opinion. I think lie is interested in Mrs. Bowen. Mrs. Boweii! And you think that would be a mitigating circumstance in his acceptance of money from her? If he had the spirit of a man at all, it would make it all the more revolting. Oh no, oh no, softly pleaded Mr. Waters. We must not look at these things too romantically. He probably reasons that she would give him all her money if they were married. But he has no right to reason in that way, retorted Colville, with heat. They are not married; its ignoble and unman- ly for him to count upon it. Its prepos- terous. She must be ten years older than he. Oh, I dont say that theyre to be married, Mr. Waters replied. But these disparities of age frequently occur in marriage. I dont like them, though sometimes I think the evil is less when it is the wife who is the elder. We look at youth and age in a gross, material way too often. Women remain young longer than men. They keep their youthful sympathies; an old woman understands a young girl. Do youor do Iunderstand a young man ? Colville laughed harshly. It isnt 30 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. quite the same thing, Mr. Waters. But yes, Ill admit, for the sake of argument, that I dont understand young men. Ill go farther, and say that I dont like them; Im afraid of them. And you wouldnt think, he added, abruptly, that it would be well for me to marry a girl twenty years younger than myself. The old man glanced up at him with innocent slyness. I prefer always to discuss these things in an impersonal way. But you cant discuss them imperson- ally with me: Im engaged to Miss Gra- ham. Ever since you first found me here after I told you I was going away I have wished to tell you this, and this seems as good a time as any-or as bad. The defiance faded from his voice, which dropped to a note of weary sadness. Yes, were engagedor shall be, as soon as she can hear from her family. I wanted to tell you because it seemed somehow your due, and because I fancied you had a friendly interest in us both. Yes, that is true, returned Mr. Wa- ters. I wish you joy. He went through the form of offering his hand to Colville, who pressed it with anxious fervor. I confess, he said, that I feel the risks of the affair. Its not that I have any dread for my own part: I have lived my life, such as it is. But the child is full of fancies about me that cant be fulfilled. She dreams of restoring my youth some- how, of retrieving the past for me, of avenging me at her own cost for an un- lucky love affair that I had here twenty years ago. Its pretty of her, but its ter- ribly patheticits tragic. I know very well that Im a middle-aged man, and that theres no more youth for me. Im get- ting gray, and Im getting fat. I wouldnt be young if I could; its a bore. I sup- pose I could keep up an illusion of youth- fulness for five or six years more; and then if I could be quietly chloroformed out of the way, perhaps it wouldnt have been so very bad. I have always thought, said Mr. Waters, dreamily, that a good deal might be said for abbreviating hopeless suffer- ing. I have known some very good peo- ple advocate its practice by science. Yes, answered Colville. Perhaps Ive presented that point too prominently. What I wished you to understand was that I dont care for myself; that I consid- er only the happiness of this young girl thats somehowI hardly know how been put in my keeping. I havent for- gotten the talks that weve had heretofore on this subject, and it would be affectation and bad taste in me to ignore them. Dont be troubled at anything youve said; it was probably true, and Im sure it was sin- cere. Sometimes I think that the kindest the least cruelthing I could do would be to break with her, to leave her. But I know that I shall do nothing of the kind; I shall drift. The child is very dear to me. She has great and noble qualities; shes supremely unselfish; she loves me through her mistaken pity, and because she thinks she can sacrifice herself to me. But she cant. Everything is against that; she doesnt know how; and there is no reason why. I dont express it very well. I think nobody clearly understands it but Mrs. Bowen, and Ive somehow alienated her. He bccamc aware that his self - abne- gation was taking the character of self- pity, aiwi he stopped. Mr. Waters seemed to be giving the subject serious attention in the silence that ensued. There is this to be remem- bered, he began, which we dont con- sider in our mere speculations upon any phase of human affairs, and that is the wonderful degree of amelioration that any given difficulty finds in the realization. It is the anticipation, not the experience, that is the trial. In a case of this kind, facts of temperament, of mere association,of union, work unexpected mitigations; they not only alleviate, they allay. You say that she cherishes an illusion concerning you: well, with women, nothing is so indestruc- tible as an illusion. Give them any chance at all, and all the forces of their nature combine to preserve it. And if, as you say, she is so dear to you, that in itself is almost sufficient. I can well understand your misgivings, springing as they do from a sensitive conscience; but we may reasonably hope that they are exaggerated. Very probably there will not be the rap- ture for her that there would be ifif you were younger; but the chances of final happiness are greatyes, very consider- able. She will learn to appreciate what is really best in you, and you already under- stand her. Your love for her is the key to the future. Without that, of course Oh, of course, interrupted Colville, hastily. Every touch of this comforters hand had been a sting; and he parted with INDIAN SUMMER. 31 him in that feeling of utter friendlessness involving a man who has taken counsel upon the confession of half his trouble. Something in Mrs. Bowens manner when he met her next made him think that perhaps Imogene had been telling her of the sympathy he had expressed for her ill health. It was in the evening, and Imogene and Mr. Morton were looking over a copy of The Marble Faun, which he had illustrated with photographs at Rome. Imogene asked Colville to look at it too, but he said he would examine it later; he had his opinion of people who illustrated The Marble Faun with photo- graphs it surprised him that she seemed to find something novel and brilliant in the idea. Effie Bowen looked round where she was kneeling on a chair beside the couple with the book, and seeing Colville wan- dering neglectedly about before he placed himself, she jumped down and ran and caught his hand. Well, what now ? he asked, with a dim smile, as she began to pull him to- ward the sofa. When he should be ex- pelled from Palazzo Pinti he would really miss the worship of that little thing. He knew that her impulse had been to con- sole him for his exclusion from the plea- sures that Imogene and Mr. Morton were enjoying. Nothing. Just talk, she said, mak- ing him fast in a corner of the sofa by crouching tight against him. What about? About which is the pleasantest season ? Oh no; weve talked about that so often. Besides, of course youd say spring, now that its coming on so nicely. Do you think Im so changeable as that? Havent I always said winter when this question of the seasons was up? And I say it now. Shant you be awfully sor- ry when you cant have a pleasant little fire on the hearth like this any more ? Yes; I know. But its very nice hav- ing the flowers, too. The grass was all full of daisies to-dayperfectly powdered with them. To-day? Where ? At the Cascine. And in under the trees there were millions of violets and crows-feet. Mr. Morton helped me to get them for mamma and Imogene. And we staid so long that when we drove home the daisies had all shut up, and the little pink leaves outside made it look like a field of red clover. Are you never going there any more ? Mrs. Bowen came in. From the fact that there was no greeting between her and Mr. Morton, Colville inferred that she was returning to the room after having already been there. She stood a moment, with a little uncertainty, when she had shaken hands with him, and then dropped upon the sofa beyond Effie. The little girl ran one hand through Colvilles arm, and the other through her mothers, and gripped them fast. Now I have got you both, she triumphed, and smiled first into her face, and then into his. Be quiet, Effie, said her mother, but she submitted. I hope youre better for your drive to- day, Mrs. Bowen. Effie has been telling me about it. ~ATe staid out a long time. Yes, I think the air did me good; but Im not an invalid, you know. Oh no. Im feeling a little fagged. And the weather was tempting. I suppose youve been taking one of your long waThs. No; Ive scarcely stirred out. I usu- ally feel like going to meet the spring a little more than half-way; but this year I dont, somehow. A good many people are feeling rath- er languid, I believe, said Mrs. Bowen. I hope youll get away from Florence, said Colville. Oh, she returned, with a faint flush, Im afraid Imogene exaggerated that a little. She added, You are very good. She was treating him more kindly than she had ever done since that Sunday aft- ernoon when he came in with Imogene to say that he was going to stay. It might be merely because she had worn out her mood of severity, as people do, returning in good humor to those with whom they were offended, merely through the recon- ciling force of time. She did not look at him, but this was better than meeting his eye with that interceptive glance. A strange peace touched his heart. Imo- gene and the young clergyman at the ta- ble across the room were intent on the book still; he was explaining and expati- ating, and she listening. Colville saw that he had a fine head, and an intelligent, handsome, gentle face. When he turn- ed again to Mrs. Bowen it was with the illusion that she had been saying some- thing; but she was, in fact, sitting mute, 32 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.. and her face, with its bright color, showed pathetically thin. I should imagine that Venice would be good for you, he said. Its still very harsh there, I hear. No; when we leave Florence, I think we will go to Switzerland. Oh, not to Madame Schebress ! plead- ed the child, turning upon her. No, not to Madame Schebress, con- sented the mother. She continued, ad- dressing Colville: I was thinking of Lau- sanne. Do you know Lausanne at all ? Only from Gibbons report. Its hardly up to date. I thought of taking a house there for the summer, said Mrs. Bowen, playing with Effies fingers. Its pleasant by the lake, I suppose. Its lovely by the lake ! cried the child. Oh, do go, mamma! I could get a boat and learn to row. Here you cant row, the Arnos so swift. The air would bring you up, said Colville to Mrs. Bowen. Switzerlands the only country where youre perfectly sure of waking new every morning. This idea interested the child. Wak- ing new ! she repeated. Yes; perfectly made over. You wake up another person. Shouldnt you think that would be nice ? Well, I shouldnt, in your place. But in mine, I much prefer to wake up another person. Only its pretty hard on the other person. How queer you are ! The child set her teeth for fondness of him, and seizing his cheeks between her hands, squeezed them hard, admiring the effect upon his features, which in some respects was not advantageous. Effie ! cried her mother, sternly; and she dropped to her place again, and laid hold of Colvilles arm for protection. You are really very rude. I shall send you to bed. Oh no, dont, Mrs. Bowen, he begged. Im responsible for these violences. Effie used to be a very well behaved child before she began playing with me. Its all my fault. They remained talking on the sofa to- gether, while Imogene and Mr. Morton continued to interest themselves in the book. From time to time she looked over at them, and then turned again to the young clergyman, who, when he had closed the book, rested his hands on its top and began to give an animated account of something, conjecturably his sojourn in Rome. In a low voice, and with pauses adjusted to the occasional silences of the young people across the room, Mrs. Bowen told Colville how Mr. Morton was introduced to her by an old friend who was greatly interested in him. She said, frankly, that she had been able to be of use to him, and that lie was now going back to America very soon: it was as if she were privy to the conjecture that had come to the sur- face in his talk with Mr. Waters, and wish- ed him to understand exactly how matters stood with the young clergyman and her- self. Colville, indeed, began to be more tolerant of him; he succeeded in praising the sermon he had heard him preach. Oh, he has talent, said Mrs. Bowen. They fell into the old, almost domestic strain, from which she broke at times with an effort, but returning as if helplessly to it. He had the gift of knowing how not to take an advantage with women; that sense of unconstraint in them fought in his favor; when Effie dropped her head wearily against his arm, her mother even laughed in sending her off to bed; she had hitherto been serious. Imogene said she would go to see her tucked in, and that sent the clergyman to say good-night to Mrs. Bowen, aiid to put an end to Colvilles audience. In these days, when Colville came every night to Palazzo Pinti, he got back the tone lie had lost in the past fortnight. He thought that it was the complete immu- nity from his late pleasures, aiid the reg- ular and sufficient sleep, which had set him firmly on his feet again, but lie did not inquire very closely. Imogene went two or three times, after she had declared she would go no more, from the neces- sity women feel of blunting the edge of comment: but Colville profited instantly and fully by the release from the par- ties which she offered him. He did not go even to afternoon tea-drinkings: the days of the different ladies, which he had been so diligent to observe, knew him no more. At the hours when society as- senibled in this house or that and inquired for him, or wondered about him, he was commonly taking a nap, and lie was punc- tually in bed every night at eleven, after his return from Mrs. Bowen s. He believed, of course, that he went. INDIAN SUMMER. 33 there because he now no longer met Imo- gene elsewhere, and he found the house pleasanter than it had ever been since the veglione. Mrs. Bowens relenting was not continuous, however. There were times that seemed to be times of question and of struggle with her, when she vacillated between the old cordiality and the later alienation; when she went beyond the former, or lapsed into moods colder and more repellent than the latter. It would have been difficult to mark the moment when these struggles ceased altogether, and an evening passed in unbroken kind- ness between them. But afterward Col- ville could remember an emotion of grate- ful surprise at a subtle word or action of hers in which she appeared to throw all restraintscruple or rancor, whichever it might beto the winds, and become perfect- ly his friend again. It must have been by compliance with some wish or assent to some opinion of his; what he knew was that he was not only permitted, he was invited, to feel himself the most favored guest. The charming smile, so small and sweet, so very near to bitterness, came back to her lips, the deeply fringed eyelids were lifted to let the sunny eyes stream upon him. She did, now, whatever he asked her. She consulted his taste and judgment on many points; she consented to resume, when she should be a little stronger, their visits to the churches and galleries: it would be a shame to go away from Florence without knowing them thoroughly. It came to her asking him to drive with her and Imogene in the Cas- cine; and wheii Imogene made some ex- cuse not to go, Mrs. Bowen did not post- pone the drive, but took Colvihle and Effie. They drove quite down to the end of the Cascine, and got out there to admire the gay monument, with the painted bust, of the poor young Indian prince who died in Florence. They strolled all about, talking of the old times in the Cascine, twenty years before; and walking up the road beside the canal, while the carriage slowly followed, they stopped to enjoy the peasants lying asleep in the grass on the other bank. Colville and Etfie gathered wild flowers, and piled them in her mo- thers lap when she remounted to the car- riage and drove along, while they made excursions into the little dingles beside the road. Some people who overtook them in these sylvan pleasures reported the fact at a reception to which they were going, and Mrs. Amsden, whose mind had been gradually clearing under the simul- taneous withdrawal of Imogene and Col- ville from society, professed herself again as thickly clouded as a weather-glass be- fore a storm. She appealed to the sym- pathy of others against this hardship. Mrs. Bowen took Colville home to din- ner; Mr. Morton was coming, she said, and he must come too. At table the young clergyman made her his compli- ment on her look of health; and she said, Yes, she had been driving, and she be- lieved that she needed nothing but to be in the air a little more, as she very well could, now the spring weather was real- ly coming. She said that they had been talking all winter of going to Fiesole, where Imogene had never been yet; and, upon comparison, it appeared that none of them had yet been to Fiesohe except herself. Then they must all go together, she said; the carriage would hold four very comfortably. Ah! that leaves me out, said Col- yule, who had caught sight of Effles fall- en countenance. Oh no. How is that? It leaves Effie out. Its the same thing. But I might ride, and Effie might give me her hand to hold over the side of the carriage; that would sustain me. We could take her between us, Mrs. Bowen, suggested Imogene. The back seat is wide. Then the party is made up, said Col- ville, and Effie hasnt demeaned herself by asking to go where she wasnt invited. The child turned inquiringly toward her mother, who met her with an indul- gent smile, which became a little flush of grateful appreciation when it reached Colvihle; but Mrs. Bowen ignored Imo- gene in the matter altogether. The evening passed delightfully. Mr. Morton had another book which he had brought to show Imogene, and Mrs. Bow- en sat a long time at the piano, striking this air and that of the songs which she used to sing when she was a girl: Colville was trying to recall them. When lie and Imogene were left alone for their adieux they approached each other in an estrange- ment through which each tried to break. Why dont you scold me ? she asked. I have neglected you the whole even- ing. How have you neglected me 34 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. How? Ah! if you dont know No. I dare say I must be very stu- pid. I saw you talking with Mr. Morton, and you seemed interested. I thought Id better not intrude. She seemed uncertain of his intention, and then satisfied of its simplicity. Isnt it pleasant to have Mrs. Bowen in the old mood again ? he asked. Is she in the old mood I Why, yes. Havent you noticed how cordial she is ? I thought she was rather colder than usual. Colder ! The chill of the idea pene- trated even through the density of Col- yules selfish content. A very complex emotion, which took itself for indignation, throbbed from his heart. Is she cold with you, Jinogene I Oh, if you saw nothing No; and I think you must be mis- taken. She never speaks of you without praising you. Does she speak of me ? asked the girl, with her honest eyes wide open upon him. Why, no, Colville acknowledged. Come to reflect, its I who speak of you. But howhow is she cold with you I Oh, I dare say its a delusion of mine. Perhaps Im cold with her. Then dont be so, my dear! Be sure that shes your friendtrue and good. Good-night. He caught the girl in his arms and kissed her tenderly. She drew away, and stood a moment with her repellent fingers on his breast. Is it all for me I she asked. For the whole obliging and amiable world, lie answered, gayly. AT THE GRAVE OF KEATS. TO G. W. C. LO~G7 long ago, in the sweet Roman spring, hrough the bright morning air, we slowly strolled, And in the blue heaven heard the skylark sing Above the ruins old Beyond the Forums crumbling grass-grown piles, Through high-walled lanes & erhung with blossoms white That opened on the far Campagnas miles Of verdure and of light; Till by the grave of Keats we stood, and found A rosea single rose left blooming there, Making more sacred still that hallowed ground And that enchanted air. A single rose, whose fading petals drooped, And seemed to wait for us to gather them. So, kneeling on the humble mound, we stooped And plucked it from its stem. One rose, and nothing more. We shared its leaves Between us, as we shared the thoughts of one Called from the field before his unripe sheaves Could feel the harvest sun. That roses fragrance is forever fled For us, dear friendbut not the Poets lay. He is the rose, deathless among the dead, Whose perfume lives to-day. C. P. CRANCH.

34 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. How? Ah! if you dont know No. I dare say I must be very stu- pid. I saw you talking with Mr. Morton, and you seemed interested. I thought Id better not intrude. She seemed uncertain of his intention, and then satisfied of its simplicity. Isnt it pleasant to have Mrs. Bowen in the old mood again ? he asked. Is she in the old mood I Why, yes. Havent you noticed how cordial she is ? I thought she was rather colder than usual. Colder ! The chill of the idea pene- trated even through the density of Col- yules selfish content. A very complex emotion, which took itself for indignation, throbbed from his heart. Is she cold with you, Jinogene I Oh, if you saw nothing No; and I think you must be mis- taken. She never speaks of you without praising you. Does she speak of me ? asked the girl, with her honest eyes wide open upon him. Why, no, Colville acknowledged. Come to reflect, its I who speak of you. But howhow is she cold with you I Oh, I dare say its a delusion of mine. Perhaps Im cold with her. Then dont be so, my dear! Be sure that shes your friendtrue and good. Good-night. He caught the girl in his arms and kissed her tenderly. She drew away, and stood a moment with her repellent fingers on his breast. Is it all for me I she asked. For the whole obliging and amiable world, lie answered, gayly. AT THE GRAVE OF KEATS. TO G. W. C. LO~G7 long ago, in the sweet Roman spring, hrough the bright morning air, we slowly strolled, And in the blue heaven heard the skylark sing Above the ruins old Beyond the Forums crumbling grass-grown piles, Through high-walled lanes & erhung with blossoms white That opened on the far Campagnas miles Of verdure and of light; Till by the grave of Keats we stood, and found A rosea single rose left blooming there, Making more sacred still that hallowed ground And that enchanted air. A single rose, whose fading petals drooped, And seemed to wait for us to gather them. So, kneeling on the humble mound, we stooped And plucked it from its stem. One rose, and nothing more. We shared its leaves Between us, as we shared the thoughts of one Called from the field before his unripe sheaves Could feel the harvest sun. That roses fragrance is forever fled For us, dear friendbut not the Poets lay. He is the rose, deathless among the dead, Whose perfume lives to-day. C. P. CRANCH. THE MARKET-GARDEN. From an aquarelle by L6on Bonvin, owned by Mr. W. T. Walters, LEON BONVIN. IF it be true, as Sakai-Muni taught, that the soul is subjected to expiatory in- carnations in unworthy environments, Ldon Bonvin must have found himself verynear to supreme rest when he broke a form of existence which had imposed upon him nothin~, but disguises and vexations. By his instincts, the result of mysterious transmissions of which science can only note the effects, he was a painter, a mu- sician, an artist sensitive to harmonies of all kinds; by necessity he was obliged to expend his activity over the pots and pans of a tavern kitchen. He had but the cold hours of the morning or the heavy hours of the night in which to draw and paint his water-colorsmarvels of obser- vation and expression, which were sold at the paltriest prices, and that, too, with great difficulty. His disposition was gen- tle and loving, and his fate was to have to turn out of his doors rough drunkards and to endure the irony and railin~ of a wife who did not understand him. Of family life he knew only the hardships, and of society only its indifference for his original and exquisite work. I have suffered too much ! was the lamentation cHRYsANTHEMUMs. From an aqoarollo by Ldon Bonvin~ owned by Mr. W T. Walters.

LEON BONVIN. IF it be true, as Sakai-Muni taught, that the soul is subjected to expiatory in- carnations in unworthy environments, Ldon Bonvin must have found himself verynear to supreme rest when he broke a form of existence which had imposed upon him nothin~, but disguises and vexations. By his instincts, the result of mysterious transmissions of which science can only note the effects, he was a painter, a mu- sician, an artist sensitive to harmonies of all kinds; by necessity he was obliged to expend his activity over the pots and pans of a tavern kitchen. He had but the cold hours of the morning or the heavy hours of the night in which to draw and paint his water-colorsmarvels of obser- vation and expression, which were sold at the paltriest prices, and that, too, with great difficulty. His disposition was gen- tle and loving, and his fate was to have to turn out of his doors rough drunkards and to endure the irony and railin~ of a wife who did not understand him. Of family life he knew only the hardships, and of society only its indifference for his original and exquisite work. I have suffered too much ! was the lamentation cHRYsANTHEMUMs. From an aqoarollo by Ldon Bonvin~ owned by Mr. W T. Walters. 38 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. which some passers-by heard, a short time l)efore he abandoned his body to a stream in the woods one winter evening, just as a vagabond abandons alono the road-side the heavy shoes whose weight has become intolerable to his bruised feet. Lion Bonvin was born at Vaugirard, a suburb of Paris, on February 28, 1834. He was the fourth child, by a second mar- riage, of a man already advanced in years, who came from Lille, and had been suc- cessively a domestic servant, a barber, a farmer, a soldier, and a gendarme. Final- ly he became a rural policeman and sold (1 rink. Endowed with a strength, a bold- ness, and a vigor which age had not im- paired. he used to keep watch, before day- break, over the roads by which the mar- ket-gardeners returned from Paris with their money-bags full, after having been to market with their cart-loads of vegeta- bles and fruit. M. Jules Vall~s, in relat- ing the death of the son, remembers old Bonvin, lcp~re Bonvin, honest as gold, hard as stone, when he used to come on to the Place de Ia Maine to warm his worn-out body in the ....... . He used to tell the story of his campaigns in a broken voice; he had served in the Spanish war, was present at the execution of the gener- als Mallet and Lab~doy& re.... He had no tenderness to spare, this old gendarme, and when he entered his house every- thing was silent; the sound of his voice made all tremble. Qld Bonvins occupa- tion was mounting rochers, those minia- ture rockeries which form the decoration of the windows of the small suburban res- tan rants, between the wild rabbits, the (hishes of stewed prunes, and the blue- edged coffee services. These rockeries are composed of small pieces of gritstone and sheets of gypsum, which represent the wa- ter. One day, while looking for gypsum in the quarries of the hill of Montmartre, he found a mammoths tooth aiid some antediluvian bones. He took them to the Museum of Natural History, to M. Cuvier, who complimented him and sent him one hundred francs. This old man, though virtuous in his way, was ferociously selfish: he would not allow his sons to learn any trade, but kept them at home to act as waiters. One of the elder, M. Fran~ois Bonvin, ran away when he was quite young, and, after various fortunes, lie has become one of the most esteemed painters in the group of the French artists who have not been enslaved by the Academy. Ldon Bonvin, the youngest of the four, was knocked about and buffeted from his child- hood. Laughed at for his awkwardness, timid, aiid embarrassed, he bowed his bead, he became taciturn,but he never had the idea of running away. His brother Fran~ois, who returned from time to time, alone divined how much delicacy lay concealed in his heavy frame, how much skill in his clumsy hands, how much acuteness in his gentle look. He gave hini some pencils, and recommended him to copy what lie saw as he saw it. Later oii lie took him to the school in the Rue de lEcole de M~decine, which was founded in the eighteenth century by the painter Bachelier, and which was directed in our own time by the most eminent of our art-professors, M. Lecocq de Boisban- dran. It was the constant endeavor of M. Fran~ois Bonvin to preserve his brother from all critical influences, for he felt how much true originality might be developed by that reserved nature in conditions of rigorous isolation. He had given him, like the sincere master he himself is, the advice which resumes all teachings, Do everythiing directly from nature. He pointed out to him, as excellent practice borrowed from the Dutch and Flemish masters, pen and ink outline under the water-color washes. I have in my possession one of Leon Bonvins first water-colors. It is dated 1857. He was then only twenty-three years of age. It is as complete in the sen- timent and the rendering as any of his future work will be. A periwinkle with its leaves elongated like a Greek buckler, a daisy tipped with rose, some grass with brush-like seeds, dip their stalks in a pea- sants drinking glass, short, thick, and round. The pfmle blue of the wood flower, the fresh white of the field flower, the healthy green of the meadow grass, stand out with harmonious and vibrating gay- ety against the background of the wall, brown with the smoke of pipes and the rubbing of toil-stained clothes. Certain studies of Albert Diirer, washed in color over vigorous indications of pen and ink or of black pencil, give an idea of the con- scientiousness and relief of this composi- tion, which occupies very little space, but whose charm is very considerable.* ~ The water-colors of L6ou Bonvin with which I am acquainted are generally 20 to 24 centimeters long, by 16 to 20 wide. BIRDS AND WEEDS. From an oqonrelle by Ldon Bonvin, owned by Mr. W. T. Walters. 42 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. artists and poets into a state of juvenile elation. It is a branch of an apple-tree iii full bloom; the brown bark and the leaves without elegance set off with all the more vivacity the buds still enfolded and the open petals with the roseate virginal brightness. Starting from a trunk which we do not see, the branch spreads its lu- minous or softly shaded mass against the background of a wooded inclosure form- ing a wall of leaves fretting the azure of the sky into a thousand blue lozenges and diamonds. This humble rustic sub- ject is impressed with serious passion. The delicacy of the tissue of the l)etals as- sumes the charms of a beloved vlsao-e in an April morning; the limpidity of the light, the caress of the wind, the perfnme of the blossom, the reflections, soft as sou ye- nirs, are ic I)roduced with strikino- force. I do not know of any exact portrait of the wife of L~on Bonvin, or of Botivin himself. He was evidently too timid to venture to l)aint faces, bnt he made lici l)O5~ to animate some of his coruposi- tions. Mi. Endoxe Marcille, now curator of the Museum of Orleans, has called my attention to a view of the wine-shop kept by this ill-matched couple; the wife, seen in profile, is sweeping the door-step of the house, whose dark silhouette stands out against the orange and greenish glow of a sunset. I bought this branch of apple blossom, which recently provoked surprise and ad- miration at the exhibition of the Dessins du Si~cle in the galleries of the Ecole des Beaux Arts, of a well-known publisher of etchings and dealer in pictures. I was surprised at the moderateness of the price, some thirty francs. He told me that lie had the portfolio, in which Iliad chosen the water-color, on deposit only, the amateurs not appreciating these little lavis suffi- ciently to enable him to risk buying them out and out. Certain obstacles prevented me from goino- to Vaugirard, and when I was on the point of beiiig able to go, a let- tei published in the newspapers revealed the niiserv of the last weeks of the artists life and his suicide. A did not therefore have the honor of personal relations with liini. But his works are the complete con- fession of the whole man, and his life is opeii as the (hay. Both the one and the other have left profound memories iii the miiid of those who have studied them. I have collected notes which enable me to reconstitute the narrative. I shall not abuse these confidences. I shall simply give sufficient of them to explain the sin- gularity of the genius of this ahnost uli- known master, his preference for certain motifs of nature, and the reason of his limited production and his small notoriety. My dear friend (an artist wrote to me in 1879), lam not astonished at the effect which the water-colors of Fran~ois Bon- viiis brother have produced upon you. I remember them as perfect things. I have often regretted not to ~O55~55 one. It would have beemi so easy at the time when he used to sell them at teii or fifteen framics each. L~omi Bonvin was a tall, blonde man who said little. He looked rather as if he were disguised asa tavern-keepei. He lived in a house built by himself on some land which the commune of Vaugirard had givemi to his father as a recompense for his services. P~ie Bonvin, the rural police- man, had been the terror of the bad char- acters and marauders of the neigliboi-hood; lie used to go down alone into the quar- ries and arrest a dozeii of thieni at a time. I knew him by accideiit. I used often to dine atRagachies, at the Barri~re de S~vres where they used to make a certaiii dish of rabbit .saut6 en cinq minutes; that is to say, the cook used to take a rabbit out of the hutch, somebody took out his watch, and the cook managed to kill, skin, cook, and serve the rabbit in five minutes. It. was a wager we often made. One day a persoii who had been shown the exhibition of the rabbit killed and cooked in five minutes said to us: Your rabbit is amusing, but I know a. place where you eat a really good rabbit. stewed to perfection. The next day we went with this person, who did not know that the tavern-keeper in questioii was a. painter. however, lie had told us, You will see a queer little house, and the host. plays the piano. This was true. L~on Bonvin was also a musician. After dinner he used to play on his organ airs by Bee- thioven, Grdtry, Mozart, etc. This first visit was imiade about 1858. I returned many times afterward, up to the time when lie killed himself, out of fright and also out of weariness. He was mar- ried. I do not renmeniber his children. He painted not only flowers; I have seen also landscapes and interiors, always taken in his house or iii his garden. His horizon was the fortifications. I remember well a. large water-color; it was his pewter coun- ter, with the bottles, the jugs, the brass. 42 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. artists and poets iato a state of juvenile abuse these confidences I shall simply elation. It is a branch of an apple-tree give sufficient of them to explain the sin- in full bloom; the brown bark and the ~ularity of the genius of this almost un- leaves without elegance set off with all the known master, his preference for certain more vivacity the buds still enfolded and motifs of nature, and the reason of his the open petals with the roseate virginal limited production and his small notoriety. brightness. Starting from a trunk which My dear friend (an artist wrote to me we do not see, the branch spreads its lu- in 1879), I am not astonished at the effect minous or softly shaded mass against the which the water-colors of Fran9ois Bon- background of a wooded inclosure form- yins brother have produced upon you. I in~ a wall of leaves fretting the azure of remember them as perfect things. I have the sky into a thousand blue lozenges often regretted not to possess one. It would and diamonds. This humble rustic sub- have been so easy at the time when he used ject is impressed with serious passion. to sell them at teii or fifteen francs each. The delicacy of the tissue of the petals as- Ldon Bonvin was a tall, blonde man who sumes the charms of a beloved visage in said little. He looked rather as if he we ~e an April morning; the limpidity of the disguised as a tavern-keeper. He lived in light, the caress of the wind, the perfnnie a honse built by himself on some land of the blossom, the reflections, soft as souve- which the commune of Vaugirard had nirs, are reproduced with strikin~ force. given to his father as a recompense for his I do not know of any exact portrait of services. Pare Bonvin, the rural police- the wife of Ldon Bonvin, or of Bonvin man, had been the terror of the bad ch r- himself. He was evidently too timid to acters and marauders of the neighborhood; venture to paint faces, bnt he made hem he used to go down alone into the quar- pose to animate some of his composi- ries and arrest a dozen of them at a time. tions. M. Endoxe Marcille, now curator I knew him by accident. I used often to of the Museum of Orleans, has called dine atRagaches, at the Barri~re de S~vres my attention to a view of the wine-shop where they used to make a certain dish of kept by this ill-matched couple; the wife, rabbit saut6 en ciflq minutes; that is to seen in profile, is sweeping the door-step say, the cook used to take a rabbit out of of the house, whose dark silhouette stands the hutch, somebody took out his watch, out against the orange and greenish glow and the cook managed to kill, skin, cook, of a sunset. and serve the rabbit in five minutes. It. I bought this branch of apple blossom, was a wader we often made. which recently provoked surprise and ad- One day a person who had been miratioii at the exhibition of the Dessins shown the exhibition of the rabbit killed du Sidcle in the galleries of the Ecole des and cooked in five minutes said to us: Beaux Arts, of a well-known publisher of Your rabbit is amusing, but I know a. etchings and dealer in pictures. I was place where you eat a really good rabbit. surprised at the moderateness of the price, stewed to perfection. The next day we some thirty francs. He told me that he went with this person, who did not know had the portfolio, in which I had chosen the that the tavern-keeper in question was a. water-color, on deposit only, the amateurs painter. However, he had told us, You not appreciating these little lavis suffi- will see a queer little house, and the host. ciently to enable him to risk buyin~, them plays the piano. This was true. Ldon out and out. Certain obstacles prevented Bonvin was also a musician. After dinner me from goin~ to Vaugirard, and when I he used to play oti his organ airs by Bee- was on the point of being able to go, a let- thoven, Grdtry, Mozart, etc. ter published in the newspapers revealed This first visit was made about 1858. I the misery of the last weeks of the artists returned many times afterw~rd, up to the life and his suicide. -i did not therefore time when lie killed himself, out of fright have the honor of personal relations with and also out of weariness. He was mar- him. But his works are the complete con- ned. I do not remember his children. fession of the whole man, and his life is He painted not only flowers; I have seen open as the day. Both the one and the also landscapes and interiors, always taken other have left profound memories in the in his house or in his garden. His horizon mind of those who have studied them. I was tIme fortifications. I remember well a. have collected notes which enable me to large water-color; it was his pewter coun- reconstitute the narrative. I shall not ter, with the bottles, the jugs, the brass. 44 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. water cistern, such as you see in Chardins pictures. It was at this counter that I saw him for the first time, and his wife serving out drink. This water-color was extreme- ly fine. A few years ago, after the war, I wished to see the house again, but I was unable to find it. In the old days the country there was a vast plain, with the house in the middle; now there are streets and six-story houses. Leon Bonvin contrived to build himself a house with materials given to him by contractors whose accounts he kept on the days when they came to eat at his tavern and to settle with their foremen. The quarrymen, the masons, and the navvies occupied the rooms down-stairs. We find the portrait of the rooms in an interi- or, robust as a Pieter de Hoogh, in the possession of M. Boussaton; in the fore- ground a woman seen from the back, in a brown dress, with white cap and apron, is standing in front of the pewter counter and emptying a bottle; the light strikes upon her, and lights up the rest of the room through a window; the rafters of the ceiling are unplastered; over the top of an oak cupboard which occupies the background rises, as the full moon rises on the horizon, a round plate in faience of Rouen. Through the open door we see three persons talking, wearing on their heads caps or cotton caftans. There was a room upstairs, and in one corner of it stood the harmonium which L6on Bonvin had managed to buy with the proceeds of his pourboircs patiently amassed in a save-all. He had learned music from an old German of the neighborhood, writes to me a lady whom we may believe, for she is herself a distinguished singer; he played Beethoven with sentiment and method as an artist; for he was an artist in the full acceptation of the term. He used to sit at the harmonium and re- lieve his long silences by conversing with Weber or with Gluck. But soon his wife, an ignorant and scoffing creature, would come and tap him on the shoulder: Leon, you are boring the people down- stairs with your gloomy church music. Play them something gay. The en- chantment was broken. The listeners remained mute to avoid coarse scenes. Bonvin swallowed his draught of bitter- ness, and struck up the polka or romance which the street organs had brought into fashion. Adjoining the house was a little gar den with some arbors of meagre lilac- trees arid scraggy alders. It was there that the table used to be laid, on fine days that are ~o delicious in the envi- rons of Paris, for the artists and rare ama- teurs who appreciated the master and his drawings, the man and his equable char- acter, the tavern-keeper and his stewed rabbits, his plates of mushrooms, and his cool wine at thirty sous the bottle. It was there that he used to open his portfo- lios of water-colors before his brother, be- fore Bracquemond,who was beginning to produce his masterly etchings, before the printer Jules Claye and his friend the caricaturist Henri Monnier, the trag6di- enne Agar, in the prime of her beauty, the actors Bressant, Gil - Perez, Thiron, the wood - engravers Drunaire and Yon, Mr. Lucas, the painters Villain and Yan d~Argent, and others too, who came to air their hopes and their youth in the neigh- boring coppices of Meudon woods. I never met with a direct view of this house. Mr. W. T. Walters, of Baltimore, has kindly lent me one which reproduces the side facing the road which led there across some land, the level of which had been raised by rubbish deposits. It was sheltered by three trees, and along the fence passed a narrow path which went on disappearing and re - appearing right away to the foot of a wooded slope. Bonvin often used to draw in his gar- den, very early in the morning, before the customers came to take their draught of white wine, qui tue lever. Often,too, he would venture outside and stop at the first large motif of plants which happen- ed to arrange well against the horizon. These ingeniously chosen subjects are per- haps the most essentially personal part of his work. Those who have tried with sincerity to paint flowers in the open air have felt how difficult it is to combine ac- cessories with them; either their brilliancy must be subordinated to the landscape, or the landscape must be sacrificed. L6on Bonvin has succeeded in accomplishing the alliance with a talent all the more sure because it is simple and without ar- tifice. Here we have a family of gold- finches that have alighted on the dry branches of some thistles and wild aniseed; the vermilion of their beaks, the black of their cowls, the chrome of their wings, an- imate with sparks of brightness the opal gray of the fog through which the sun is penetrating. There we have a chrysan IIAIRPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. 44 water cistern, such as you see in Chardins pictures. It was at this countei~ that I saw him for the first time, and his wife serving out drink. This water-color was extreme- ly fine. A few years ago, after the war, I wished to see the house again, but I was unable to find it. In the old days the country there was a vast plain, with the house in the middle; now there are streets and six-story houses. Ldon Bonvin contrived to build himself a house with materials given to him by contractors whose accounts he kept on the days when they came to eat at his tavern and to settle with their foremen. The quarrymen, the masons, and the navvies occupied the rooms down-stairs. We find the portrait of the rooms in an interi- or, robust as a Pieter de Hoogh, in the possession of M. Boussaton; in the fore- ground a woman, seen from the back, in a brown dress, with white cap and apron, is standing in front of the pewter counter and emptying a bottle; the light strikes upon her, and lights up the rest of the room through a window; the rafters of the ceiling are unplastered; over the top of an oak cupboard which occupies the back~,round rises, as the full moon rises on the horizon, a round plate in faience of IRouen. Through the open door we see three persons talking, wearing on their heads caps or cotton caftans. There was a room upstairs, and in one corner of it stood the harmoniumwhich L6on Bonvin had managed to buy with the proceeds of his pourboires patiently amassed in a save-all. He had learned music from an old German of the nei~hborhood, writes to me a lady whom we may believe, for she is herself a distinguished singer; he played Beethoven with sentiment and method as an artist; for he was an artist in the full acceptation of the term. He used to sit at the harmonium and re- lieve his long silences by conversing with Weber or with Gluck. But soon his wife, an ignorant and scoffing creature, would come and tap him on the shoulder: Ldon, you are boring the people down- stairs with your gloomy church music. Play them something gay. The en- chantment was broken. The listeners remained mute to avoid coarse scenes. Bonvin swallowed his draught of bitter- ness, and struck up the polka or romance which the street organs had brought into fashion. Adjoining the house was a little gar den with some arbors of meagre lilac- trees and scrag~y alders. It was there that the table used to be laid, on fine days that are ~o delicious in the envi- rons of Paris, for the artists and rare ama- teurs who appreciated the master and his drawings, the man and his equable char- acter, the tavern-keeper and his stewed rabbits, his plates of mushrooms, and his cool wine at thirty sous the bottle. It was there that he used to open his portfo- lios of water-colors before his brother, be- fore Bracquemond,who was beginning to produce his masterly etchings, before the printer Jules Clayc and his friend the caricaturist Henri Monnier, the tragddi- enne Abar, in the prime of her beauty, the actors Bressant, Gil - Perez, Thiron, the wood - engravers Drunaire and Yon Mr. Lucas, the painters Villain and Yan d~Argent, and others too, who came to air their hopes and their youth in the neigh- boring coppices of Meudon woods. I never met with a direct view of this house. Mr. W. T. Walters, of Baltimore, has kindly lent me one which reproduces the side facin~ the road which led there across some land, the level of which had been raised by rubbish deposits. It was sheltered by three trees, and along the fence passed a narrow path which went on disappearing and re - appearing right away to the foot of a wooded slope. Bonvin often used to draw in his gar- den, very early in the mornin~,, before the customers came to take their draught of white wine, qui tue lever. Often, too, he would venture outside and stop at the first large motif of plants which happen- ed to arrange well against the horizon. These in~ eniou sly chosen subjects are per- haps the most essentially personal part of his work. Those who have tried with sincerity to paint flowers in the open air have felt how difficult it is to combine ac- cessories with them; either their brilliancy must be subordinated to the landscape, or the landscape must be sacrificed. Ldon Bonvin has succeeded in accomplishing the alliance with a talent all the more sure because it is simple and without ar- tifice. Here we have a family of gold- finches that have alighted on the dry branches of some thistles and wild aniseed; the vermilion of their beaks, the black of their cowls, the chrome of their wings, an- imate with sparks of brightness the opal gray of the fog through which the sun is penetrating. There we have a chrysan MADAME BONYIN. From an aqoarelle by Ldon Bonvin, owned by M Bonoonton 46 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. themum which has grown up vigorously on a heap of rubbish, and glories in its starry flowers with their sulphur-yellow centres, while in the successive planes of the morning mist one sees a man digging, the profiles of the edge of a village and of the church steeples. [See the aquarelle en- titled The Market-Garden.] Here again, is a fullers thistle with its silhouette of threatening prickles, some wild carrots, and grasses shooting up in slender tubes; their outlines strike across a sky of light drift- ing vapors; the line of the horizon is bro- ken by the glacis of the fort of issy, and by the outstretched arms of a windmill. Another water-color is an evening effect of boundless melancholy. We might be- lieve ourselves in a cemetery assisting at some tragic and distasit conflagration which is flinging its sad smoke in the air; through the gnarled branches, which are losing their leaves, a woman is seen pass- ing, bent beneath a burden, and hastening toward a cold-looking and cheerless dwell- ing-house. * I have before me a landscape which ren- ders excellently the diffused intensity of full summer in the environs of Paris; the sky is like milk just foaming osi the fire; a plant of mullein or high-taper lifts its pyramid of felted leaves and of little but- ter-colored flowers; near it some wild sor- rel with its metallic-looking leaves; at the base of the undulating hills a gamekeep- ers house; a stony path passes at the foot of a sturdy oak, which is known as the big oak-tree of the pond of Chaville. Ldon Bomivin used often to paint at night by the light of a lamp inclosed in a box which cast a strong ray on the flow- ers placed on the table. These studies may be recognized by a certaimi harshness iii the green of the leaves, and a certain hardness in the denticulation, for instance, of the extremity of the petals of the red and white carnations plunged in the elon- gated tube of a champagne glass. His ideas of luxury did not go beyond this champagne glass. Having been lent one * These four superb water-colors belong, as well as others that I describe, to Mr. W. I. Walters ,of Baltimoreone of time most serious and intelligent of American amateurs and collectorswho bought them one by one of Ldon I3onvin. This gentle- man possesses snore than fifty of the aquarelles of time artist, bein~ many times the number existing in the collection of any other one person some tventy of these are landscapes combined with flowers, fif- teen are subjects of flowers, ten are landscapes, amid there are ten studies of fruits and vegetables. day by a friend some ancient glasses, Bon- yin thanked him, put them away, but nev- er niade use of them. Neither would he ever paint greenhouse plants or flowers. To the inquiry of Mr. Walters if he had not tIme desire to paint camelhias or other cultivated flowers, he replied, Do not ask me to do these; my heart is not in them. In the same way J. F. Millet was sensitive only to the beauty of peasant men and women, and felt no enthusiasm in presence of figures moulded by the corset, of folds fixed by tIme dress-maker, and complexions. sophisticated with poudre de riz. On the contrary, when Leon Bonvin could paint at his ease during the autumn days, when customers became rarer, he carried the scrupulousness of his pencil and brush so far as to paint the reflection of the frame of the window through which the light was shed into the room. We find similar trifling minuteness in the pictures of Van Eyck, particularly in the Betrothal of Maximilian, in the Na- tional Gallery of London. We must not look for Ldon Bonvin s most personal work in tIme still-life sub- jects lie used to group on the corner of a table in the winter, when there were abso- lutely no more wild flowers. These com- positions betray the emptiness of sterile hours, the miecessity of fulfilling some order, the vague preoccupation of trying time kind of work which makes the fortune of mnediocrities. He seems, however, to~ have taken some imiterest in them merely as studies of color. Here, on the thick top of his kitchen table, is a bottle, a de- canter, a loaf with a piece cut out, a cut- glass goblet, a basket of pommes dapi packed in moss. These pomnmes dapt are sound, bright-colored, amid shiny; it makes. your mouth water to look at them. Here, again, is a tuft of bleached dandelions, some chervil and chives, some beet-root already pared, an oil cruet, a blue-edged salad bowl ready to receive tIme salad. Evidently, in spite of tIme severe guard which Isis brother kept over him, some one had given advice to this candid crea- ture, and had troubled him; had reproach- ed himim for not giving nobility to his ma- terials; had perhaps treated hun as a real- ista termin which was then tIme height of contempt. I have hind this scene narrated to me. A pupil of Imigres has been the Mephistopheles of this tranquil Faust. Time fact is betrayed in a still-life subject of masterly executiomi, in which the taste STILL-LTFE STUDY. From on nqnorellr by Leon Bonvin, owned by Mr. W. T. Walters. 48 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. of Ldon Bonvin is less distinctly conspic- nous than usual. It is evident that he did not like exotic fruits any more than the hot-house flowers. On a napkin with red stripes is a dessert ready to be ar- ranged, a bottle of Alicante wine, a decan- ter, a plate of raisins, almonds, and nuts, some mandarin oranges, a pomegranate. One orange has been cut by a table-knife, and its quarters are still held together by the end of the core. Lion Bonvin must have painted this water-color after a visit to an original by J. B. Chardin. I do not mean to say that he was wrong to ask information under the guidance of this great predecessor; I simply state the fact that he came away thoroughly impregnated with the method of that learned master, who impressed so vigorous and simple a stamp on the school of painting of the eighteenth century. The frequentation of masters of this order can not but be fruitful to unbiassed natures. In such society they acquire the confirma- tion of their own instinctive sentiments, and practical advice on points which they have hitherto only half seen. The only thing to be desired is that the interview leave merely general souvenirs and that in listening to the words of the master the pupil do not catch the accent. Certainly Ldon Bonvin never better rendered the white lights and the gray folds of a napkin of linen spun by a spindle and woven by the weavers shuttle than on the day when he painted this picture; never did he give to the roundness of his fruits a more ample curve. But it is no longer familiar nature; it gives no longer the impression of intimate, of that pro- found expressiveness, of that seal on a mans work of what is most inward and peculiar in his moods and manners of ap- prehension. I imagine some middle-class family must have given an order for these mandarins and that pomegranate, and that Bonvin must have put on his Sunday frock - coat to do honor to them. How much less ceremony he made with the wild pansies, so delicate and nervous, with the sweet-smelling wood-violets! These are the flowers which he really and heartily loved. But the fatal moment was approaching. I have seen in the collection of Mr. Lucas a landscape which answers to the impres- sions of his aching soul; beyond a fore- ground of buttercups, daisies, wild roses and brambles stretches~ a landscape dark- ened by the approach of a storm; some fields where a few stunted trees are grow- ing; a pool of water in which is reflected a bit of dim blue sky; some hills quite close that give one the sensation of a closed life. Generally, and even nearly always, the signature of Ldon Bonvin is traced neatly in black; in this case it is written in sombre red. This signature is followed by the date, 1865. The winter of 1865 was terrible for L6on Bonvin. Other taverns had been opened in the neighborhood as the new houses advanced over the plain. The workmen had perhaps felt embarrassed at coming into contact with artists and bour- geois, and they no longer came. Ldon Bonvin, having nothing to do at home had even worked as a carter with the stone wagons. Debts were accumulating. He had a bill of thirteen hundred francs to meet. He was tortured by jealousy. His heart and his hands were torn by every thorn. On January 29, 1866, he went to return some ancient glass which had been obli- gingly lent to him; thence he went to see a dealer in water-colors, who did not deign to choose anything out of his portfolio. He found all the water-colors too dark, not gay enough. A week afterward M. Fran~ois Bonvin addressed the following letter to M. Albert de ha Fizeli~re, who, a few weeks before, had called attention to the misery of the artist. My DEAR SIR,Here is a very sad conclusion for your article in the Eve~ne- ment of the 13th November last. My poor brother, in spite of all his efforts, has been overcome by evil fortune. The attempts which he made a week ago to sell the last drawings lie had executed were vain; the picture-dealer offered him ten francs for drawings for which the others ordinarily paid him sixty francs. The future seemed to him more gloomy than the past. Instead of confiding to me the full extent of his needs, he deter- mined to have done with everything, and he went and hung himself on a tree in the wood of Meudon on the evening of Janu- ary 31. You knew him, and you know that fraternity does not blind me when I proclaim that lie was indeed the best and purest of the best. As an artist, one has only to look at his drawings to recognize THE THISTLE. From an aquarelle by LSon ]3onvin, owned by Mr. W. T. Walters. 50 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. his worth. His musical aptitudes were unknown. All this is dead! Now there remain three children and a weakly wife, and I myself, who am al- most in as great misery, for at the present moment all the fruit that I have gathered of my labors is to have but few debts rela- tively to what I should have had if I had allowed myself all the necessaries of life. We need, then, dear sir, your kind aid to endeavor to organize a sale. For my part, I have never failed to respond to the ap- peals that have been made to me by others in similar circumstances, and I hope I shall find amongst our colleagues enough sympathy to help me in the sad mission which has fallen to my lot. F. BoNvIN. 6th of January, 1866. P.S.His body was not found until Saturday, at Meudon, at the foot of a tree, near the pond of Villebois. The branch had broken. This is the only damage he ever did in his life. He was just thirty- two years of age. The press, the studios of artists of talent and heart, answered this appeal. The sale took place at the Hotel Drouot on the 24th of the following May, under the direction of an auctioneer, M. Boussaton, who after having taken a very active part in its or- ganization refused to accept any honora- rium. The prices of modern pictures were then nothing like what they were to be- come less than ten years later. Let us mention some of the figures as a curiosity, adding that the fine society folks affected not to appear at this auction. The sale was for the benefit of the family of a re- alist who had not exhibited in the annu- al Salons, and of whom the rich collectors, the fashionable dealers, and the adminis- tration of the Department of Fine Arts had never bought anything. The total of 636 items produced 8394 francs 50 cen- times, deduction made of the ten per cent. for expenses. Twelve water-colors found in the portfolio which Lion Bonvin had in vain offered for sale were knocked down at from 50 to 88 francs. A view of the bridge of Grez by Corot was sold for 350 francs to Cadart, at the liquidation of whose business I myself bought it for double that sum. This study, entirely painted from nature, and judged to be one of the most perfect of the master at the posthumous exhibition of his works, shows me, in the soft atmosphere of the environs of Fontaineblean, the trees of a park very dear to my heart, the boat from which my father used to throw me into the ri ver Loing to teach me to swim, and the church in the grave - yard of which my mother rests. A view of Douarnenez, on the coast of Brittany, by M. Jules Brdton, fetched 245 francs; and the Ecole des Petites Smnurs des Pauvres, by M. Fran~ois Bon- via, a reduction of a larger composition, equalling, in the observation of popular sentiment, in the rendering of the tran- quil light of a room with bare walls, the most touching and most natural master- pieces of the Flemish school. A Courbet 340 francs; a landscape by Daubigny, 185 francs; a still-life by M.Roybet, 102 francs~ a sketch and three etchings by M. Meisso- nier, 101 francs. Luckily a bit of a pic- ture by M. Edouard Fi~~re, representing a boy looking at a portfolio of engravings in a painters studio, was run up on be- half of a famous English dealer, Mr. Gain- bart, who monopolized Edouard Fr~res works, and reached the figure of 1400 francs. Such was the life and such was the end of one of the most singular natures and one of the best gifted for art that we could find in our times, which are every day more and more threatened by the laws of civilization with the obliteration of sincere and tenacious originality. Lion Bonvin took as his theme the flowers and plants of his garden, the land- scape around his house, the details of his interior. Such, four centuries before, at the time of the truly French Renaissance, had been the theme of the illustrious min- iaturists of Ile de France and Touraine, on the margins of the vellum hour-books. Like them, penetrated with the artists simple faith, Lion Bonvin has expressed all the varied beauty, all the profound poet- ry, that is contained in these humble mod- els. Solomon in all his glory, says the gospel, was not arrayed like the lily of the field. He lies in the unconsecrated corner of a suburban cemetery, in the accursed bury- ing-place of those who have died of their own hand. His remains ought rather to have been laid in a thicket of the Mendon woods, where every spring the branches grow green and the violets bloom, igno- rant of human wretchedness. PINKS. From an aquarello by Leon Bonvin, owned by Mr. W. T. Woltoro. ESTHER FEVEREL. ABOUT a mile beyond the straggling outskirts of a New England village once as young and energetic as any in the land, but to-day so old and exhausted that it seems to have sunk into restful sleep, there stands a house built of dull gray stone, and bearing bravely still the on- slaught of the New England winters it has withstood for now nearly two cen- turies. This house, beginning at last to bear witness to the wear of time, isoneof the oldest in America; it is one of the few buildings of the seventeenth century which survive to this last quarter of the nineteenth. To us who live in an age of rush and glitter the appearance of the house is in no wise remarkable except for its evident antiquity; nor should we turn aside now to consider what the contempo- raries of the first owner were wont to call the stately nobility of its proportions. But our eyes are not the eyes of the early cob- rusts of New England, and the stone house which Judge Feverel built was long a wonder for miles around. More than one fast-day sermon had been directed against its magnificence, which seemed out of place amid the humble beginnings of the growing colony. There yet lingered a tradition that the house had once been called The Judo~e~s Folly. But the nickname had died away long ago as the magnificence of the house had faded. And as time, unhasting and unresting, sped slowly, the house of the stern and fiery Roger Feverel had fallen from grace, and the fortnnes of the elder branch of the Feverels were fallen with it. As the late November sun sent its de- clining rays across the low western hills, and gilded the substantial chimney which rose above the slant roof of the house which Judge Feverel had built, a man on horseback drew rein before the door. He looked at the house like one who had nev- er seen it before; bnt his face lighted up at once with a glance of recognition and a smile of satisfaction that he had come to the end of his travels at last, and reached a haven of rest. He sprang from his horse, which he tethered to a post at the edge of the path. He was a handsome young fellowfor young he was yet, in spite of his having already accomplished half of a mans ~vllotted span of life. He had dark wavy hair, quick black eyes, and a frank face, on which there might be seen at times a dreamy look. His walk indicated a resolute self-reliance, and he passed up the unfamiliar path as though he had a right to be there. As he stood on the low step before the door of the house, after ringing the bell, lie turned to look at the little garden which surrounded the house, and at the few scant fields which were attached to it; then he raised his head with a little touch of pride as he recalled the time when the owner of the house was the owner also of the land for a mile or more on every side of it. One by one these broad acres had slipped from the loose hands of the Fever- els, and generation after generation the Feverels had become poorer and poorer, as though there had been a curse on them and on their house. On this house there may be a curse, and there is reason for it, thought John Feverel, as lie stood for the first time at the door of the home of the Feverels; but the curse, if curse there be, is on this house only, and not on the Feverels at large. It is on them, perhaps, who remain here and keep up the flame of hatred, but it is not on those who have gone forth into the world. There was no curse on my grandfather when he, the younger son, went out from here and prospered, while the elder son remained here and saw his substance shrivel up. There was no curse on my fa- thier, who made his way in the world with- out hinderance from ill fortune. There is no curse on me as yet. Standing here on time threshold of the house of the Feverels, I can look back over my past with pleasure, for I have been happier than most men, and I can look forward to the future with hope. Receiving no answer to his repeated ring, John Feverel rapped sharply on the panel of the door. Under the force of the blow, the door opened silently, and disclosed a broad hall, at the farther end of which, facing the entrance, there was a large fire-place, where a few sticks of wood were burning brightly. The visitor stood for a moment on the door-step, as though awaiting an invitation to enter. Then lie walked into the house and looked about him. The hall was spacious, old-fashion- ed, quaint. The wood-work had reached a stage of decay when care could no long- er conceal the marks of age and use. Ev- erything was clean and worn-out. The

ESTHER FEVEREL. ABOUT a mile beyond the straggling outskirts of a New England village once as young and energetic as any in the land, but to-day so old and exhausted that it seems to have sunk into restful sleep, there stands a house built of dull gray stone, and bearing bravely still the on- slaught of the New England winters it has withstood for now nearly two cen- turies. This house, beginning at last to bear witness to the wear of time, isoneof the oldest in America; it is one of the few buildings of the seventeenth century which survive to this last quarter of the nineteenth. To us who live in an age of rush and glitter the appearance of the house is in no wise remarkable except for its evident antiquity; nor should we turn aside now to consider what the contempo- raries of the first owner were wont to call the stately nobility of its proportions. But our eyes are not the eyes of the early cob- rusts of New England, and the stone house which Judge Feverel built was long a wonder for miles around. More than one fast-day sermon had been directed against its magnificence, which seemed out of place amid the humble beginnings of the growing colony. There yet lingered a tradition that the house had once been called The Judo~e~s Folly. But the nickname had died away long ago as the magnificence of the house had faded. And as time, unhasting and unresting, sped slowly, the house of the stern and fiery Roger Feverel had fallen from grace, and the fortnnes of the elder branch of the Feverels were fallen with it. As the late November sun sent its de- clining rays across the low western hills, and gilded the substantial chimney which rose above the slant roof of the house which Judge Feverel had built, a man on horseback drew rein before the door. He looked at the house like one who had nev- er seen it before; bnt his face lighted up at once with a glance of recognition and a smile of satisfaction that he had come to the end of his travels at last, and reached a haven of rest. He sprang from his horse, which he tethered to a post at the edge of the path. He was a handsome young fellowfor young he was yet, in spite of his having already accomplished half of a mans ~vllotted span of life. He had dark wavy hair, quick black eyes, and a frank face, on which there might be seen at times a dreamy look. His walk indicated a resolute self-reliance, and he passed up the unfamiliar path as though he had a right to be there. As he stood on the low step before the door of the house, after ringing the bell, lie turned to look at the little garden which surrounded the house, and at the few scant fields which were attached to it; then he raised his head with a little touch of pride as he recalled the time when the owner of the house was the owner also of the land for a mile or more on every side of it. One by one these broad acres had slipped from the loose hands of the Fever- els, and generation after generation the Feverels had become poorer and poorer, as though there had been a curse on them and on their house. On this house there may be a curse, and there is reason for it, thought John Feverel, as lie stood for the first time at the door of the home of the Feverels; but the curse, if curse there be, is on this house only, and not on the Feverels at large. It is on them, perhaps, who remain here and keep up the flame of hatred, but it is not on those who have gone forth into the world. There was no curse on my grandfather when he, the younger son, went out from here and prospered, while the elder son remained here and saw his substance shrivel up. There was no curse on my fa- thier, who made his way in the world with- out hinderance from ill fortune. There is no curse on me as yet. Standing here on time threshold of the house of the Feverels, I can look back over my past with pleasure, for I have been happier than most men, and I can look forward to the future with hope. Receiving no answer to his repeated ring, John Feverel rapped sharply on the panel of the door. Under the force of the blow, the door opened silently, and disclosed a broad hall, at the farther end of which, facing the entrance, there was a large fire-place, where a few sticks of wood were burning brightly. The visitor stood for a moment on the door-step, as though awaiting an invitation to enter. Then lie walked into the house and looked about him. The hall was spacious, old-fashion- ed, quaint. The wood-work had reached a stage of decay when care could no long- er conceal the marks of age and use. Ev- erything was clean and worn-out. The 54 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. tidiness and neatness, the nosegay of fresh flowers in a vase by a window, the little touches of color elsewhere, revealed a wo- mans hand. Yet the house seemed to be empty. There was no one to welcome John Feverel to the home of his ances- tors. Uncle Timothy ! he called. Cousin Esther ! But there came no answer. The house was as deserted as it was deso- late. From its stillness it might be a habi- tation of the dead, where no one dwelt but the ghosts of the past. He called again, and again he received no reply. Neither of his kinsfolk was at home to greet him. And yet it was to see them almost as much as to take possession of the property that he had cut short his travels and crossed the ocean in haste. John Feverel was the grandson of a John Feverel who left this Eastern home of the family to seek his fortune in the West. In this undertaking he had pros- pered as no Feverel before him had pros- pered since the fire had first smoked on the.hearth of The Judges Folly. He worked and made money; he married and saw his children grow up about him; and in his old age he rested in peace before he died happily. His son, John Feverel again, made yet another move to the West, and lie prospered as his father had prospered. When he died lie left to his only son, the John Feverel who now stood in the hall of the house built by Roger Feverel nearly two hundred years ago, three good things: a brave heart, a keen head, and a modest fortune. To these John Feverel added a quality of his own, an inquiring mind ever athirst for knowledge. He put his wits to work and did not cease from labor until he had doubled the fortune left him by his father. Although he was then barely thirty-five years of age, and although he saw before him the prospect of great riches, he gave up his business and rest- ed satisfied with the comfortable compe- tence he had attained. He felt that lie had a more important work in life than the mere making of money. Just what this future work might be he did not know, but he was ready to undertake whatever seemed to him fit and worthy. In the mean while lie set about improv- ing himself by travel. He had more than his share of that mysticism of the West which matches so curiously with the oc cult temperament of the Orient. Even as a boy lie had become an adept in the cab- alistic secrets of the Rosicrucians. As a man lie travelled throughout the East, seeking to sate his desire to gaze on strange things, and to penetrate the ob- scure mysteries of strange people. He had sought to discover the means whereby the wonder-workers of the East wrought their miracles. He was learned in the lore of the alchemists, and he had traversed Arabia in search of the surviving reposi- tories of their recondite wisdom. To all that he saw he applied his shrewd com- mon-sense. The results of his experiment and investigation lie kept to himself; but he walked among men as one who has peered deep into the enigmas of life and pondered upon them long and earnestly. It may be that, for a little space, he stood in danger of sinking into the leth- argy of Buddhiistic contemplation. He was far up in the Himalayas when lie re- ceived a letter which suddenly recalled him to a sharp self-consciousness. It was from Esther Feverel, the only daughter of Timothy Feverel, the last survivor of the elder branch of tIme old Judges fam- ily. It told him in few and simple words that her fathers affairs were hopelessly involved, and that a mortgage on the old house was about to h)e foreclosed; and it suggested that perhaps lie might like to buy it, so that the house should still be owned by a Feverel. John Feverel had never seen any of his New England rela- tives, and he had given them little thought; but with the old house, with the strange story of its building, and with the legends which clustered about its hearth, he was perfectly familiar. He had sat by his grandfathers knee, night after nigh tdur- lug the festival reunions which brought together the various members of the West- ern branch of the familyand he had treasured up every word which fell from his grandfathers lips, when he told of TIme Judge~s Folly, arid of the fire on its hearth, and of the ill fortune which followed the house and its inmates. To have the house pass into Ins possession was a boon he had not dared to hope for. The letter which informed him that its l)urchase was possible was written in the name of Timothy Feverel, but the hand wasthehand of his daughter. John Fever- el had studied chiirographiy as lie had stud- ied whatever else might serve to increase his knowledge of men. He was wont to read character by handwriting with a suc- cess often startling to himself. The sym- bols of character he deciphered in the sin- cere handwriting of Esther Feverel made him wish to meet her and know more of her. He wrote to her at once, venturing to call her cousin, and telling her that he had given orders to have the place bought for him whenever the mortgagee saw fit to foreclose. Furthermore, assuming the liberty of a kinsman, he begged that she and her father would continue to live in the house as before, taking care of it for him, against the time when he should re- turn to America. A few months later, when he had begun ROGER FEVEREL HAD KINDLED IT FOR THE FIRST TIME. 56 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. to be weary of his years of wandering in search of the unknowable, he had received another letter from Esther, letting him kno~v that the sale had taken place, and that the house was his, and thanking him for the kindness extended to her father and herselfa kindness of which they would gladly avail themselves until his return. So gentle was this letter, so sweet in its maidenly modesty, so frank and wo- manly was it, so charming was the char- acter revealed by its chirography, that it wrought a change in John Feverel 5 views of life. He abandoned a daring trip to the chief temples of China, and made his way back to America. Now, as he stood for the first time iii the home of the Feverels, he had a sharp feel- ing of disappointment that Esther was not there to bid him welcome. Before he had paced the hall half a dozen times, this feel- ing gave way, and he began even to be glad that lie was alone, and that his first impressions of the old house might be pure of all admixture of the opinions of another, even were that other his cousin Esther. So accurate had been his grand- fathers description, and so retentive had been his own memory, that he felt at home in the house as soon as he entered the door. He gazed from the windows, and the view was to him as though he had seen it before in some former existence. The tall clock on the stairs looked down on him as benignantly as it had looked down on the other children of the family in the two centuries since it first began to measure eternity into time. The mirror over the mantel-piece at the end of the hall reflected his image as it had reflected the image of eight generations of Fex-erels since the old Judge set it against the chim- ney. The ancient chair before the fire ex- tended its arms as hospitably to him as it had to his great-grandfather, the list of his line who had sat in it. On John Fey- erel these things had a strange effect; lie felt as though lie had come home at last and for the first time. As lie sat himself down in the chair be- fore the fire and glanced up at the mirror, he saw an expression on his face he had never known there before. He had a strange presentiment that he was at the turning - point of his career. It was as though he were halting at the threshold of a new life, pausing for a moment to look back across the past, and yet regard- ing the future hopefully. He lowered his eyes, and they fell on the date carveii deep iiito the heavy timbers of the mantel-piece 1692. For nearly two hundred years had the fire been alight on that hearth day and night, winter and summer, year after year. There the flame had burned and sinouldered and blazed siiice the Judge, in his fanaticism and wrath, had brought home a brand from the burning of a poor wretch whom he had sentenced to death for dealings with the devil. On that hearth, beneath the faded tiles, whereon were depicted Cain and Abel, David and Gohiathi, Sisera and JacI, and other char- acters in Biblical scenes of bloodshed, the fire had never ceased rising and falling since Roger Fevei~el had kindled it for the first time with a brand from the burning, that it might be an enduring witness to his righteousness, and that it should be ready at all times in the future to fire the torch whenever the same awful vengeance niighit need to be taken once again. Roger Feverel was dead and buried, and the ha- treds and the beliefs and the heresies of his time were dead and buried also, but the fire lie kindled was still smoking on his hearth. Roger Feverels son and his graiidson and his great-grandson had passed away, one after another; but the fire that the founder of the family had lighted when lie built the house lived oii and was as young as ever. Generation followed generation to the grave, but the fire of intolerance still burned on its altar as though Roger Feverel had made a coy- eiiant with his descendants that they should feed the flame forever. So strong- ly had the traditions of the faniily seized John Feverel that lie bent forward and laid across the enibers two pieces from the piles of cut wood ready to his hand on either side of the fire-place. As lie lay back again in the chair lie saw in the mirror the reflection of his smile, for he was half conscious that his humorous skepticism mated ill with the fanatic intolerance of the old Judge who had set light to that fire. He wondered whether Roger Feverel had also looked into the mirror as lie heaped fuel upon the flame. No doubt the Judge had seen tIme look on his own dark face, though lie knew not how to read its meaning. The glass had hung there since time fire first flamed. In it had been reflected the life history of the Feverels. Across the sur- face of that frail glass had passed the image of the pride and the joys amid time ESTHER FEVEREL. 57 sorrows of Roger Feverel aiid of his de- scendants. It had seen their youth and their old age; it had seeii their sufferings, and it may be their death. It had been a silent witness to their prosperity, and, aft er many years, to their poverty, but nev- er to their disgrace or their shame, for they always held their heads high, and their poverty was never tarnished with dishonor. As John Feverel sat in the chair before the fire and gazed up into the mirror he thought of these things, and he wished that these scenes might be evoked from the past, and shown again in the glass wherein they had been reflected as they happened. He wondered what the Judge would have thought of the magic mirrors of Japaii, in which a vanished scene may be made to re-appear. Surely the Judge would have seen nothing strange in the tale, but he would have been prompt to punish any man who should make use of such a device of the devil. John Feverel recalled the temple on the flanks of Fusiyama wherein the Jap- anese priests preserved jealously the most potent of these magic mirrors. It was in this temple thatby one of those curious reproductions in strange countries of the rites and mysteries of ancient civilization a perpetual fire was cherished on the altar, guarded night and day, as the virgins of IRoma kept up the sacred flame of Vesta. When a certain mysteriously compound- ed preparation was thrown upon this fire, a dense smoke arose and veiled the magic mirror, which hung just above the altar, and it was through the dim haze of this smoke that the pictures of the past became visible in the glass. Suddenly John Feverel sprang to his feet. It had struck him that here in The Judges Folly in New England there was an ever-burning fire beneath a mirror, just as there was in the Japanese temple on the side of Fusiyama. And at the same time he remembered that he had begged and bribed a priest of the temple to give him a portion of the preparation thrown upon the fire beneath the magic mirror. With infinite precaution the priest had confided it to him, incased in a tiny silver ball, the surface of which was curiously wrought with a mystic device. This ball, the contents of which he had intended to submit to chemical analysis whenever oc- casion served, he had worn ever since at- tached to his watch chain as a charm. As he thought of it his fingers closed upon it and the worn links of the chain parted and left the hall in his hand. It was as though the inanimate thing had whisper- ed to him that the time had come when it could be of use. Obeying art impulse which lie felt to be well-nigh irresistible, John Feverel drew forward the scattered fragments of the fire which had burned on that hearth for nearly twice a hundred years. Then, with a single turn of his wrist, he twisted apart the silver hemispheres which con- tained the magical compound of the Jap- anese temple. A white powder fell from them upon the glowing embers, a pungent aroma filled the air, and a thick smoke arose, veiling the mirror from view. As the cool evening breeze, playing through the open door, caused the cloud of smoke to waver and shift from side to side, John Feverel, reclining in the chair before the fire, felt as one looking through a glass darkly. Figures, dim and indistinct, seemed to be visible in the mirror, into which lie peered resolutely, calling up the past with the whole force of his will. He sat motionless, and gave himself up to the spell. His whole being was attuned in harmony with the moment. Whether it was memory, or imagination aided by memory, or whether the charm had veri- tably some occult potency, mattered little. As lie gazed into the mirror through the circling smoke which rose steadily from the fire beneath lie saw visions, and in time they took form and color. Some scenes stood out more vividly than others, to John Feverels delight, for he soon found that he saw more clearly what he was most familiar with. and what he most wished to see, as though the mirror re- sponded to some secret sympathy of his soul. He beheld the three sons of the house of Feverel, the brothers of Esther, dead before she was born, boys all three of them, but manly and full of spirit; lie saw them come to bid farewell to their mother, as they went forth, clad in dark blue, musket on shoulder, on the long march which should end only with their death, one on the plains of Virginia, and one in the bayous of Louisiana, and one on the hill at Gettysburg; and the shot which killed this last reached the heart of the mnothier, and was fatal, though she liii- gered bug enough to clasp her little daughi- ter in her arms before she followed her boys across the dark threshold of death. 58 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Then a thick cloud of smoke rolled across the mirror, as though a volley lia.d been fired over their graves, and as this drifted away, John Feverel, looking fixed- ly in the glass, saw the open door of the house, and a little maid went forth and gave a glass of water to a courtly old gen- tleman, who remained uncovered before her while he quenched his thirst. He knew that the little maid was his grand- fathers sister, and he recognized the court- ly old gentleman as one who had come to bring us help in time of direst need, and who was, many years later, on a visit to America as the guest of the nation. As this pleasant vision faded away soft- ly and was resolved into nothing, there fell upon the ear of the man who was peering into the mirror, with all his facul- ties at their utmost tensionthere fell upon his ear as it had been a rattle of drums, and he saw a company of redcoats drawn up before the house, and on the door-step, confronting them sturdily, while she pat- ted the babe at her breast, stood the beau- tiful Rachel Feverel, wife of Colonel Francis Feverel, parleying with the cap- tain of the British troops, and bandying words with him pertly, that he might de- lay, all to give the Continentals time to rally and return and cut theni off. While lie looked the scene changed, and the rattle of drums was drowned by shrieks and shrill yells like the cries of wild beasts. The door was closed and barred, and defended by half a score of strong men. The stanch shutters of the windows were firmly fastened, and men were firing through the loop-holes. Fiery- headed arrows fell against the door now and again, and were extinguished just as they were about to fire the house. But though the painted Indians encompassed them on every side, and escape was im- possible, and death was waiting for them, and a fate worse than death, the women of the family were not craven; some of them were loadimig the muskets, every shot from which hit the living mark it was aim- ed at; and some were gathered in a group about the fire, melting lead from the roof and running it into bullet-moulds. A lit- tle of the water into which the hot bullets were dropped fell upon the roaring logs on the hearth, and the white steam rushed up and bedimmed the mirror so that John Feverel could see nothing more for a long while. At last the steam and the smoke parted again and left the glass clear. The hall was silent and deserted; and Roger Fever- el paced slowly and thoughtfully up amid down, from the hearth he had lighted with a brand from thieburmiing he had de- creed, to the door which shut out the glo- ry of the summer sun. Judge Feverel was not an old man even then, though he had aged since the day when lie had done his duty at Hadley fight, by the side and under the orders of the gray warrior who came forth mysteriously to lead the colo- nists to victory, and who was recognized as Goffe, the regicide. As he strode up ai)d down the hall of The Judges Fol- ly lie did not note a light footstep upon the stair, and he did not see a slight and graceful girlish figure, until his daughter stole her arm in his as he turned on his heel near the door. When Roger Feverel felt her gentle touch his hard face softened, and lie gave her a look of deep affection mingled with solicitude. John Feverel recalled the family tradition of the Judges daughter, who began to sicken and fade as soon as she set foot in the house her father had built; she was his favorite of all his children, in so far at least as his stern justice allowed hini to make any dis- tinction between them. As she leaned on her fathers arm she seemed so fragile that a puff of the winter breeze would blow her away, and it was true that she did not live out the first December in the new house. She turned with her father and drew near the fire, and for the first time her face became visible to John Feverel. He looked at her with surprise, for he recognized herat least he had a vague feeling that lie had beheld her face be- fore. The beautiful mouth, the tender eyes, the delicate wave of the hair drawn tightly back, were familiar to him, like a face seen in a dream. There came a sud- den thickening of the misty vapor which enwrapped the mirror, and for a moment he seemed to see her image upon this un- substantial curtain; and then he remem- bered where it was that he had first be- held the face of the Judges daughter, and he knew it was the face of his promised bride. A year before, John Feverel had been in Egypt, and one day he had joined a lit- tle party who wished to view the Sphinx by night. After the pale green sunset had died away, and the ruddy after-glow had followed it swiftly, and the short twi- light had given place to the darkness of night, the party sat around a fire before the house where they were to sleep. While John Feverel was lying on the sand, nuder the shadow of the Sphinx, musing on the riddle of life, he was sud- denly awakened to the emptiness of ex- istence by the arrival of a little baud of strolling performers, one of whom, ap parently a Hindoo, and a man of unusual skill and presence, performed the custom- ary wonders of the itinerant magician. A dragoman hinted to one of the party that this Hindoo had great powers, and that he had been known to reveal to a man the portrait of his future bride. John Feverel, who had drawn on one side, took HER GLANCE FELL, UNDER HIS STEADY GAZE.[SEE PAGE 60.] 00 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. no part in the clamorous outcry of his fel- low-travellers for an immediate exhibi- tion of his peculiar power, and he was much surprised when the Hindoo turned to him gravely and offered to work the wonder for him, and for him alone. With his keen interest in thaumaturgy, Feverel accepted the offer. The Hindoo made two smaller fires equidistant from that around which the travellers sat, and at each he stationed one of the two boys who served as his assistants. Then the Hindoo looked into John Feverels hand and studied its lines for a moment. Pro- ducing a package of some strange Orient- al incense, he bade Feverel cast a handful of it on the fire. As lie obeyed, a thick column of smoke shot into the air, and in the centre of this column he saw a wo- mans face. It was the same face lie was to see again in the mirror. It was a face he could now nevermore forget. It had been revealed to him twice in a vision, once in a column of smoke in Egypt, and once again in a mirror here in New England. He wondered if he was never to behold her in more tangible real- ity, and to meet her face to face in actual life, where he might take her by the hand and bid her mark the beatings of his heart, and ask her to share his life through good fortune and ill. He sat silently and long, dreaming and musing. When he aroused himself at last, the rising smoke was now only a tliiii thread, and the fire had shrivelled to a few scant embers. He had a suspicion that there was some ingredient in the Japanese preparation he had sprinkled over the flames which had sufficed to quench them finally. For the first time in the two centuries since Roger Feverel had lighted the fire on that hearth it burn- ed low, and although it yet lingered and might be resuscitated by effort, it was well- nigh dead. Through the open door the slant rays of the setting sun entered the hall and bathed it in an immaterial glory. John Feverel raised his eyes again to the mirror to see if haply lie might gaul another glimpse of the face which had mox~ed him so strangely. The glass was no longer wreath- ed in vapor, and yet again it reflected the same face, not dimly now, nor indistinct, not as a phantom, iiitangihle and tantaliz- ing, but alive, and with the smile of life and health and youth. Then lie heard a light footfall, and lie sprang to his feet and stood before the woman of his vision. Aiid she stood before him in flesh aiid blood, this wonian whom he had seen only in the mirror of the past. Mouth and eyes and hair and the beauty of which these were synibols were to him unmistak- able. Eveii her dress in its simplicity re- called that of Roger Feverels daughter. The beauty which in the evanescent vi- sions had been vague and fleeting was in life beyond all question. It was the beau- ty of New England, and it dwelt as much in delicacy of color as in the regularity of outline. It was beauty not only of face, but also of figure, as firm in fact as it seemed fragile. But perhaps the chief charm lay in the eyes, dreamy yet noble, full of frankness and candor. John Fey- erel stood before her entranced, or rather as one awakened from reverie to a delight- ful reality. As she caine to~vard him, with a brill- iant smile of welcome, she held out her hand. It is Cousin John,I am sure, she said. Though we did not expect you until to- morrow, I know you. The Feverels are a marked race, with our dark eyes and light hair. And you are Esther ? he said. Yes, I am Esther, was her answer. The voice was the voice of an angel in its sweetness and purity. John Feverel almost hesitated to believe that he was not dreaming still, that lie was no longer peering into the mirvor in which lie had beheld her only a few minutes before. I am sorry that we were not here to welcome you this afternoon, but my fa- thier went into town, and I was away in the orchard, and I did not know you were here until I saw your horse. He took the hand she extended to him, and murmured inarticulate acknowledg- rnent. He found few words, though lie was wont to be ready. His tongue re- fused its office, but his love spake from his eyes. Her glance fell, under his steady gaze, and a slight blush crimsoned her cheek. It was as though, having seen her once, lie did not wish ever again to lose sight of her, and to be compelled to rely on incantation for her re-appearance. She hesitated for a little space, and then she continued: I hope you will be hap- py here, as I have been. It is a dear old house, and I have spent my life here, and I love it. But I fear you will not be con- tent with what pleased an ignorant girl~ after your wanderings all over the world. THE RJTU SANHARA, OR ROUND OF THE SEASONS. 61 What I have seen of the house seems like a glimpse of paradise, he said, when at last he found his voice. And I should be hard to please if I were to wish to leave it. I am sure that I shall not want to roam again. I shall he content here now, and to these last words he gave a deep meaning, so that the blush mantled her cheek again. I have come home to rest by my own fireside. As lie said this she cast an involuntary glance upon the hearth. Then she sprang forward with feverish haste: You have let the fire go out, she said, reproachful- ly, and it has been burning here day and night, summer and winter, ever since the house was built. John Feverel said nothing, but watch- ed her as she heaped the wood over the scant embers and sought to fan them into a flame. Perhaps it was the fixity of his glance which disturbed her, for she arose sharply and turned to seek a match. The skirt of her dress rested for a second on one of the dying embers, and as she stooped again the flames sprang up and enveloped her. With the prompt decision of a man used to the facing of emergencies, John Fey- erel seized the heavy Oriental rug which lay before the hearth. He flung it in- stantly around the girl, and rolled it tightly, extinguishing the slight flame be- fore it had force even to scorch her fair skin. For a minute he kept her wrapped closely in his arms. Then, as he relaxed his hold a little, she released herself. But you must not let the fire go out, she said, gently, even if it did try to burn rue. He placed her in the chair before the hearth, and he stepped forward and stamp- ed out the last lingering ember, powerless thereafter for good or evil. She watched him with a woman~s acquiescence in the force of a mans will. When the last spark was quenched, he came to her and took her hand. Let the old fire of intolerance and ha- tred go out, he said. For nearly two hundred years its smoke has cast a shadow over the Feverels. I hope for a new light and a purer flame on our hearth ; and he knelt beside her, and her hand rested in his. THE RITU SANIJARA, OR ROUND OF THE SEASONS. BY KLIDiSA. TRANSLATED FROM THE SANSKRIT BY EDWIN ARNOLD, c.s.i. THE first book ever printed in Sanskrit type was the Ritu San hdra or Round of the ,Seasons, from a portion of which the following translation has been made. Sir William Jones superintended its publication in the year 1792 AD., and styled the volume, The Seasons: A De- seriptive Poenr by Galidds, in the origi- nal Sanskrit, adding by way of preface: This book is the first ever printed in Sanskrit, and it is by the press alone that the ancient literature of India can be pre- served. A learner of that most interest- ing language, who had carefully perused one of the popular grammars, could hard- ly begin his course of study with an easier or more elegant work than the Ritu San- hara, an Assemblage of the Seasons. Every line composed by Cahidas is exqui- sitely polished, and every couplet in the following poem exhibits an Indian land- scape, always beautiful, sometimes highly colored, but never beyond nature. In these sentences the illustrious editor did no more than justice to the richness and beauty of the Ritu Sanhara, and also upheld the universal Indian tradition which ascribes the poem to the ever-fa- mous Kalidasa, the greatest poet and dramatist of India, if we except the half- mythical compilers of her chief epics. He was the brightest of the nine gems who adorned the court of King Yikramaditya at Ujjayini; and supposing this monarch as Wilson thought to be the same that reigned in B.c. 56, the Ritu Sanhara is older than the Odes of Horace, so that even as .a specimen of ancient Hindoo lyrical poetry it would well deserve translation into English. But as Lassen has said in the IndiseheAlterthuinsicunde: Kahidasa may be considered as the brightest star in the firmament of Hindoo poetry. He de- serves this praise on account of the mas- tery with which he wields the language, and on account of the consummate tact

THE RJTU SANHARA, OR ROUND OF THE SEASONS. 61 What I have seen of the house seems like a glimpse of paradise, he said, when at last he found his voice. And I should be hard to please if I were to wish to leave it. I am sure that I shall not want to roam again. I shall he content here now, and to these last words he gave a deep meaning, so that the blush mantled her cheek again. I have come home to rest by my own fireside. As lie said this she cast an involuntary glance upon the hearth. Then she sprang forward with feverish haste: You have let the fire go out, she said, reproachful- ly, and it has been burning here day and night, summer and winter, ever since the house was built. John Feverel said nothing, but watch- ed her as she heaped the wood over the scant embers and sought to fan them into a flame. Perhaps it was the fixity of his glance which disturbed her, for she arose sharply and turned to seek a match. The skirt of her dress rested for a second on one of the dying embers, and as she stooped again the flames sprang up and enveloped her. With the prompt decision of a man used to the facing of emergencies, John Fey- erel seized the heavy Oriental rug which lay before the hearth. He flung it in- stantly around the girl, and rolled it tightly, extinguishing the slight flame be- fore it had force even to scorch her fair skin. For a minute he kept her wrapped closely in his arms. Then, as he relaxed his hold a little, she released herself. But you must not let the fire go out, she said, gently, even if it did try to burn rue. He placed her in the chair before the hearth, and he stepped forward and stamp- ed out the last lingering ember, powerless thereafter for good or evil. She watched him with a woman~s acquiescence in the force of a mans will. When the last spark was quenched, he came to her and took her hand. Let the old fire of intolerance and ha- tred go out, he said. For nearly two hundred years its smoke has cast a shadow over the Feverels. I hope for a new light and a purer flame on our hearth ; and he knelt beside her, and her hand rested in his. THE RITU SANIJARA, OR ROUND OF THE SEASONS. BY KLIDiSA. TRANSLATED FROM THE SANSKRIT BY EDWIN ARNOLD, c.s.i. THE first book ever printed in Sanskrit type was the Ritu San hdra or Round of the ,Seasons, from a portion of which the following translation has been made. Sir William Jones superintended its publication in the year 1792 AD., and styled the volume, The Seasons: A De- seriptive Poenr by Galidds, in the origi- nal Sanskrit, adding by way of preface: This book is the first ever printed in Sanskrit, and it is by the press alone that the ancient literature of India can be pre- served. A learner of that most interest- ing language, who had carefully perused one of the popular grammars, could hard- ly begin his course of study with an easier or more elegant work than the Ritu San- hara, an Assemblage of the Seasons. Every line composed by Cahidas is exqui- sitely polished, and every couplet in the following poem exhibits an Indian land- scape, always beautiful, sometimes highly colored, but never beyond nature. In these sentences the illustrious editor did no more than justice to the richness and beauty of the Ritu Sanhara, and also upheld the universal Indian tradition which ascribes the poem to the ever-fa- mous Kalidasa, the greatest poet and dramatist of India, if we except the half- mythical compilers of her chief epics. He was the brightest of the nine gems who adorned the court of King Yikramaditya at Ujjayini; and supposing this monarch as Wilson thought to be the same that reigned in B.c. 56, the Ritu Sanhara is older than the Odes of Horace, so that even as .a specimen of ancient Hindoo lyrical poetry it would well deserve translation into English. But as Lassen has said in the IndiseheAlterthuinsicunde: Kahidasa may be considered as the brightest star in the firmament of Hindoo poetry. He de- serves this praise on account of the mas- tery with which he wields the language, and on account of the consummate tact 62 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. with which he imparts to it a more sim- ple or more artificial form, according to the requirements of the subjects treated by him, without falling into the pedantic diction of later poets or overstepping the limits of good taste; on account, also, of the variety of his creations, his ingenious conceptions, and his happy choice of sub- jects; and not less on account of the com- plete manner in which he attains his po etical ends, the beauty of his narrative, the delicacy of his sentiments, and the fertili- ty of his imagination. If that portion of the work here presented fails to justify this high eulogy, the fault is the translators, for the Ritu Sanhara is certainly a remark- ablymelodious poem, which ought not to remain unknown to those who speak the tongue of her Imperial Majesty the Em- press of India. EDWIN ARNOLD. GRISHM A, OR THE SEASON OF HEAT. [From the Ritu Sanhdra, by Kalidasa.] With fierce noons beaming, moons of glory gleaming, Full conduits streaming, where fair bathers lie; With sunsets splendid, when the strong day, ended, Melts into peace, like a tired lovers sigh So cometh summer nigh. And nights of ebon blackness, laced with lustres From starry clusters; courts of calm retreat, Where wan rills warble over glistening marble; Cold jewels, and the sandal, moist and sweet These for the time are meet Of Suchi, dear one of the bright days, bringing Love songs for singing which all hearts enthrall, Wine cups that sparkle at the lips of lovers, Odors and pleasures in the palace hall: In Suchi these befall. For then, with wide hips richly girt, and bosoms Fragrant with blossoms, and with pearl strings gay, Their new-laved hair unbound, and spreading round Faint scents, the palace maids in tender play The ardent heats allay Of princely playmates. Through the gates their feet, With lac-dye rosy and neat, and anklets ringing, In music trip along, echoing the song Of wild swans, all mens hearts by subtle singing To Katnas service bringing; For who, their sandal-scented breasts perceiving, Their white pearlsweaving with the saffron stars Girdles and diademstheir gold and gems Linked upon waist and thigh, in Loves soft snares Is not caught unawares? Then lay they by their robes no longer light For the warm midnightand their beauty cover With woven veil too airy to conceal Its dew-pearled softness; so, with youth clad over, Each seeks her eager lover. And sweet airs winnowed from the sandal fans, Faint balm that nests between those gem-bound breasts, Voices of stream and bird, and clear notes heard From vina strings amid the songs unrests, Wake passion. With light jests, WHERE FAIR BATHERS LIE. A~nd sidelong glances, and coy smiles and dances, Each maid enhances newly sprung delight; Qnick leaps the lire of Loves divine desire. So kindled in the season when the Night With broadest moons is bright; HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Till, on the silvered terraces, sleep-sunken, With Loves draughts drunken, those close lovers lie; Andall for sorrow there shall come To-morrow The Moon, who watched them, pales in the gray sky, While the still Night doth die. Then breaks fierce Day! The whirling dust is driven Oer earth and heaven, until the sun-scorched plain Its road scarce shows for dazzling heat to those Who, far from home and love, journey in pain, Longing to rest again. Panting and parched, with muzzles dry and burning, For cool streams yearning, herds of antelope Haste where the brassy sky, banked black and hioh Hath clouded promise. There will bethey hope Water beyond the tope ! Sick with the glare, his hooded terrors failing, His slow coils trailing oer the fiery dust, The cobra glides to nighest shade, and hides His head beneath the peacocks train: he must His ancient foeman trust! The purple pea-fowl, wholly overmastered By the red morning, droop with weary cries No stroke they make to slay that gliding snake Who creeps for shelter underneath the eyes Of their spread jewelries! The jungle lord, the kingly tiger, prowling, For fierce thirst howling, orbs a-stare and red, Sees without heed the elephants pass by him, Lohls his lank tongue, and hangs his bloody head, His mighty forces fled. Nor heed the elephants that tiger, plucking Green leaves, and sucking with a dry trunk dew; Tormented by the blazing Day, they wander, And, nowhere finding water, still renew Their searcha woful crew! With restless snout rooting the dank morasses, Where reeds and grasses on the salt slime grow, The wild-boars, grunting ill-content and anger, Dig lairs to shield them from the torturing glow, Deep, deep as they can go. The frog, for misery of his pooh departing Neath that flame-darting balland waters drained Down to their mud, crawls croaking forth, to cower Under the black-snakes coils, where there is gained A little shade; and, strained To patience by such heat, scorching the jewel Gleaming so cruel on his venomous head, That worm, whose tongue, a.s the blast burns along, Licks it for coolnessall discomfited Strikes not his strange friend dead! The pool, with tender-growing cups of lotus Once brightly blowing, hath no blossoms more! Its fish are dead, its fearful cranes are fled, And crowding elephants its flowery shore Tramp to a miry floor. With foam-strings roping from his jowls, and dropping From dried drawn lips, horns laid aback, and eyes Mad with the drouth. and thirst-tormented mouth, Down-thundering from his mountain cavern flies The bison, in wild wise THROUGH THE GATES ThEIR FEET, WITH LAG-DYE ROSY AND N AT. Questing a water channel. Bare and scrannel The trees droop, where the crows sit in a row With beaks agape. The hot baboon and ape Climb chattering to the bush. The buffalo Bellows. And locusts go Choking the wells. Far oer the hills and dells Wanders th aifrighted eye, beholding blasted THE MOON, WHO WATCHED THEM, PALES IN THE GRAY SKY. The pleasant grass. The forests leafy mass Wiltered; its waters waned; its grace exhausted; Its creatures wasted, Then leaps to viewblood-red and bright of hue As blooms sprung new on the kusumbha-tree The wild-fires tongue, fanned by the wind, and flung Furiously forth; the palms, canes, brakes, you see Wrapped in one agony Of lurid death! The conflagration, driven In fiery levin, roars from jungle caves; VOL. LXXIINo. 4275 SEES WITHOUT HEED THE ELEPHANTS PASS BY HIM. 68 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Hisses and blusters through the bamboo clusters, Crackles across the curling grass, and drives Into the river waves The forest folk! Dreadful that flame to see Coil from the cotton-treea snake of gold Violently break from root and trunk, to take The bending boughs and leaves iii deadly hold; Then passingto enfold New spoils! In herds, elephants, jackals, pards, For anguish of such fate their enmity Laying aside, burst for the river wide Which flows between fair isles: in company As friends they madly flee! But Thee, my Best-Beloved! may Suchi visit fair, With songs of secret waters cooling the quiet air, Under blue buds of lotus beds, and patalas which shed Fragrance and balm, while Moonlight weaves over thy happy head Its silvery veil! So Nights and Days of Summer pass for thee Amid the pleasure-palaces, with love and melody! EDWIN ARNOLD. ~ UR modern Parsees, who during three winter months woo their con- genial fires in the comfortable con viction that sitting still at home is the - A- heavenly way, the going out is the way of the world, should look well to the sum~- roundings of their seductive philosophy. TIieir converts, indeed, are a great fraterni- ty, represented approximately by the entire census. With the mercury at zero, and Boreas in hearty sympathy, even the mx~ost constant wor- shipper at the shrine of Nature is apt to become demoralized, desert his allegiance, and worship with Zoroaster and the Guebres. The hearth-stone becomes our altar, the fire-brand our emblem. 9; d -J ( A 1 K , J / A - 9/

68 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Hisses and blusters through the bamboo clusters, Crackles across the curling grass, and drives Into the river waves The forest folk! Dreadful that flame to see Coil from the cotton-treea snake of gold Violently break from root and trunk, to take The bending boughs and leaves iii deadly hold; Then passingto enfold New spoils! In herds, elephants, jackals, pards, For anguish of such fate their enmity Laying aside, burst for the river wide Which flows between fair isles: in company As friends they madly flee! But Thee, my Best-Beloved! may Suchi visit fair, With songs of secret waters cooling the quiet air, Under blue buds of lotus beds, and patalas which shed Fragrance and balm, while Moonlight weaves over thy happy head Its silvery veil! So Nights and Days of Summer pass for thee Amid the pleasure-palaces, with love and melody! EDWIN ARNOLD. ~ UR modern Parsees, who during three winter months woo their con- genial fires in the comfortable con viction that sitting still at home is the - A- heavenly way, the going out is the way of the world, should look well to the sum~- roundings of their seductive philosophy. TIieir converts, indeed, are a great fraterni- ty, represented approximately by the entire census. With the mercury at zero, and Boreas in hearty sympathy, even the mx~ost constant wor- shipper at the shrine of Nature is apt to become demoralized, desert his allegiance, and worship with Zoroaster and the Guebres. The hearth-stone becomes our altar, the fire-brand our emblem. 9; d -J ( A 1 K , J / A - 9/ A WINTER WALK. 69 No one, of course, who values his repu- tation for sanity will dare deny the cozy cheer of the chimney-corner in winter. We love the bright wood fire, with its ruddy glow, the snap and crackle and dancing flame; but look out upon the wondrous miracle of a white morning. What marvels have been wrought in a single night! Every sphericle of floating mist has burst into bloom. It is blossoni- time in the welkin. The air is merry with tinkling, fluttering legions. How their soft touch muffled the wind during the wild hours of darkness! Every whis- tling corner and crevice has been tufted or packed with down, until at last we awake to an almost andible hush and a conscious sense of quiet resignation, for A WHITE MORNING. 70 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Old Winter has besieged us unawares, and in playful taunt has left traces of his white and silent moccasin upon the earth-car- pet beneath our window. At break of dawn, behold! the earth is transfigured. The bleak hills and mea- doxvs of yesterday have vanished, lost, it would almost seem, beyond recovery. Our ~wn possessions seem strange and unfa- miliar to us, and we can scarce locate the familiar boundaries of the home lot. We look upon a world unknown On nothing we can call our ....... No cloud above, no earth below, A universe of sky and snow. The gentle rain falling from heaven alike upon the just and the unjust is the accepted figure of mercy; but the celes- tial snow, the white-winged rain, is it not even a more fitting symbol? It falls like a universal benison upon the desolated landscape. It comes like the welcome kiss of motherhood to the numb, cold face of nature, and its tender touch is the caress of kindness and beneficence. The deepest root gives thanks; the dormant dwellers in nest or burrow are dimly con- scious, perhaps, of the soft down-like cov- ering; and the quickened earth sends up its grateful emblems beneath the snow-flakes their mimic starry flower, the chick- weed, fuller and more perfect now than summer sun has ever seen. Yonder in the woods the drooping hemlocks, with out- stretched arms, and clad in their celestial vestments, seem to muster like venerable priests at some baptismal ceremony. How this clear, purged atmosphere sharpens the sight and opens up the hori- zon, as the merciful mantle of the snow smooths away all former invidious dis- tinction s, and con founds our arbitrary judgments! In these white fields you shall not know poverty from affluence, worldly distinction from obscure humil- ity. The princely park and the plebeian potato patch are one; their artificial bar- rier is blotted out in this universal bap- tism of beneficent whiteness. Let us walk out into the inviting woods. The trees can never be so fully seen as now. Their painted trunks, relieved against this neutral foil bf snow, disclose a surprising wealth of color, and the ex- quisite tracery of branch and twig, the essential elements of the trees beauty and character, heretofore largely concealed by the perishable garniture of foliage, is now revealed. The true tree, freed from all disguise, stands forth like an athlete stripped for the contest. Observe the soft, blending tones on the bole of this smooth, dappled beech. See the infinity of refined grays, browns, and greens which every- where spread and intermelt upon its sur- face. The painted beech, it has been happily called. Yes, it is the palette of the sylvan studio. It is Dame Natures sam- pler. Upon its gray surface she mixes and tests her sober and subtler tints, to be afterward disposed in those artfully art- less contrasts throughout the landscape. You shall find this silvery sample on yon- der rock-maple, disposed in one telling splash, divided vertically by the brown fissures of the bark. This bright ochery remnant re-appears on the hickory beyond, in sti-ong brilliant touches here and there upon the shingly shahes; and the broad rock hard by has received lavish decora- tion in mottled circles of this pale sage green. Here is the ari-ay of tints with which she paints the antiquated stone walls, and here the sheeny gray by which she has reclaimed the rambling miles of splintered rails. The virescent drab of poplar, the rosy ash of young maple, and the varied mosaic of the mossy bowlder, all find their complement here. With its clean, trim contour and bright, smooth complexion, we may readily ap- pi-eciate the estimate of Thoreau. No tree has so fair a bole or so handsome an instep as the beech. This latter feature, however, is often lost in the winter woods, as the trees stand knee-deep in snow, and the comely slope of their feet, clad in vel- vety moss, is concealed froni view. It is a common error to suppose that winter effaces the distinctions of individ- nality among the various trees. Nothing can be further from the truth. Are you the friend of your friends thoughts, or of his buttons ? asks Emerson, as though we should know our companion only by his dress. Many of our trees announce themselves even more distinctly in Feb- ruary than in June. The shagbark was never barked as now. The white birch reveals many more of her distinctive pallid features; and in this un season- able weather the tattooed buff satin dress of her cousin, the yellow birch, seems more than ever conspicuous. The tupelo never more effectually asserted its precious whimsicality. The white oak audibly rustles its identity; and the mar- bled buttonwood-tree hangs out a tell-tale _____ ________ __ ___ F ____ IN THE WOODS. 72 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. label from ev- ery twig. Look at this scraggly sil- houette against the sky over this lichen-painted wall. Who needs the hint of the brown frozen apple lodged among the twigs to call its name? Is it not written in every angle of its eccen- tric spray, or even in its shadow in the snow? Likewise the elm with pendent nest, the spiral fluted horn- beam, and sugar-maple too. Who would not know each from a fragment of its bark? Scarcely in a less degree do the linden, the ash, the various willows, oaks, and maples, the chestnut and the tulip tree, assert their individuality and claim recognition. To the curious observer they soon become familiar and he can name them all at a glance. The pendulous button-balls already alluded to, together with the clinging leaves of some of the white and red oaks, are, perhaps, among our deciduous trees the most conspicuous objects which commonly meet the eye in a winter walk. It is not easy to comprehend why these oak leaves persist in clinging so tenaciously to the parent stem. The wind actually twists them off. The fibrous stubs of their stems may be seen well into spring still retaining their hold, yielding only to the swelling buds of May growing from their axils, and which literally crowd them from the twig. Though less mysterious, the button-ball is still more remarkable in its tenacity. It is invulnerable. For indomitable pluck and dogged pertinacity I know of no bet- ter type, for while the oak leaves one by one, torn and demoralized, have given up THE ORCHARD IN WINTER. 73 A WINTER WALK. he fight, and flown headlong to the white truce below, the legions aloft in the button- wood-tree have defied the wildest elements, they have scarcely suffered a bruise. The nettle-tree, with its sugar-coated pellets, and the hawthorn, holly, locust, and mountain ash, often bear their fruits far into the winter, as the birds well know; and among the shrubs the sumacs, wild roses, sweet viburnum, barberry, black alder, wax- myrtle, and climbing bit- ter - sweet are similarly conspicuous; also the clambering wild grape and its allied woodbine; but most of these are evi- dently baited for the birds and thus are naturally dis- seminated during the win- ter season. These white months are he triumphal epoch of the vergreens. When has their varied beauty and haracter been so accent- uated and set off as now in ourwinterwalk! The compact pyramids of the rich olive cedars the tately symmetry of the pines! Here we are con- fronted with a low hang- ing branch; how intricate the spiculated tracery of its silhouette etched with its own needles against the snow! Would you know a treasure of our woodlands not half appre- ciated? Look, then, at our beautiful drooping hemlock, peerless in grace among the ever~ reens of the world. Not the boast- d Himalayan cedar (Ce- rus dcodctr), Chinese cy- press, nor tl~ several ex- amples of retinispora, so prized by connoisseurs can compare with it in the constituents of true beau- ty. It carries itself like a queen among them all. The formal arbitrary type of the conifers so conspic- uously adhered to in the well-known examples of white pine and Norway spruce, and which more or FROLIC IN THE SNOW. 74 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. less regulates the growth of most of our evergreens, is disregarded or artfully (lisguised in our hemlock. There is a careless freedom in its drapery and a wild, free, independent swing about its spray which are racy of the native soil, and should win our sympathetic admiration. Leaving the snow fields to walk beneath the canopy of the pines is al- most like passing from January to June. One may readily forget in these cathedral woods, with soft brown silence carpeted, the complexion of the outside world. The common summer features of the pines seem to have under- gone little apparent change. The arbutus, the partridge-vine, and the snowberry show their ac- customed thrift. Likewise the pipsissewa and / pyrola, whose slender spires of seed-pods suggest -- the flowers. x The creeping lycopodiums are the same as al- ways; the winter-green is in its element; and the brilliant ternate leaves of the coptis never more invitingly displayed their harmless gold. The scantiness of vegetation beneath the pines and - among dense evergreens generally is well known, and while the pine wood has a limited flora pe- culiar to itself, equipped to force a passage through the meshes of matted needles, the common plants habitually to be met with in equally shaded nooks are absent. One might naturally infer that the mischief lies in the dense barren screen of needles, were it not that the matter was set at rest long ago by the discovery of Pliny, who had an inter- esting theory which shows at least that conifer woods have remained the same through the ages. This antique philosopher lets a little characteristic light into their umbrage. Discoursing upon trees, lie affirms, through the quaint early English of his translator, that there is not the shadow of any one tree but either is a kind of nource or a curst step-dame for without all question tIme shade of pine-trees, pitch-trees, & firs is no better thmami poison to all thiat is within the compasse of it, and kils whatsoever it touchethi. Here we bid the pines adieu, to walk out again upon tIme crunching snow, following along the corn fields edge, where the zigzag fence is besieged with fantastic peaked drifts, overtopping all but the highest rails. How alpen-like their overhan in peaks! how blue and vast and limitless their shadows! Lie down upon the snow and shut out the distant trees, divest yourself of your physical identity, and look up at this beetling range as an ant might do. What need of Switzerland, of Jungfrau or Matterhorn! At this focal range the mastodon is but a midge, and man learns his true status as a constituent of the universe. I have now only to will, and I become a transparent eyeball; I am nothing; I see all. An inch of this white slope of drift becomes a mile, each separate wavehet which rises to an abrupt edge here and there upon its surface becomes a bold crag with a deep gulf at its base, and every interpos- ing furrow a yawning cafion. Here a delicate spine of some weed, no larger than a pin, rises above the surface. I break it into a halt-dozen short pieces, and arrange -- 4: N ~i ~J~k 9. 7~) FROM TIlE FENCE CORNER. A WINTER WALK. 75 them upright in a row upon the glittering slope. How quickly do they follow up the hint! how cautiously they seem to pick their way in the vast wilderness of snow! A party of Alpine climbers remote- ly seen move apparently no faster than these, and make no greater figure in the landscape. They are now far up on their ambi- tious journey. Presently they will reach the edge of yonder abrupt precipice, and ~v ill be obliged to re- trace their steps and fol- low down the declining slope upon its furtber side, where ~ again their course glides upward to- ward the steep crag of the sum- mit, which now rises almost perpendic- ularly above them to the height of five miles or more. What a prospect will meet their bewildered gaze as they peer over the edge and look down into that great blue chasman awful gulftwenty thousand feet in depth, con- fronted miles WINTER TWIGS. 2 ~ 76 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. beyond by a glittering wall of mountain, which receives the phantom shadoxv of their own and neighboring alps upon its perpendicular face! Below in the depths of the abyss, too distant for the ear to de- tect, almost too remote for sight, the un- dermining torrent roars beneath vast gla- cial fields, and crystal caverns more won- drous than any realm of fairy lore, miles in height, set with scintillating diamonds, conceal the rushing flood. Here are di- aphanous prisons where the encaged sun- beam seems to flutter beneath the filmy pellicle, and every partition, nook, and corner is rimmed with brilliants or fringed with crystal feathers. Here are prismatic pinnacles and stalagmites and But what is this? Some enormous ob- ject falls precipitately upon the slope, and threatens to annihilate my alpine party at one fell swoop. It bounds and plunges and rolls to the bottom of the alp, incas- ing itself in snow, and leaving a long and continually widening valley in its wake. A meteorite! Forgetting that this snowy ball is at least five hundred feet in diam- eter, I reach out and grasp it in my giant hand, break it open, and disclose the nu- cleus at its centre. No, it is not an aero- lite. It is only a prosaic hickory-nut, which has thus broken in upon and dis- pelled my pretty fancy, and thus brought me back from alp-land. Looking aloft upon the jutting rail, two shining black eyes look down at me, and a rollicking snicker wakes the echoes from the old rail-fence. The squirrels in these winter days are mostly buried snugly in their dens, and wrapped up in their furry tails, but some enterprising individuals are always abroad save in the very severest weather. Be off, you rascal! and at a clap of my hands Bun scampers away along the rider with a saucy flirt of his tail at every angle. These tiny furrows, each with its snow- ball at its lower terminus, may frequently be seen after a fresh snow-fall on steep slopes or drifts, and usually at the centre there will be found a seed, berry, nut, or what not which was the original cause of the phenomenon, and whose progress may easily be detected in the evidences at the uppermost end of the trail. I remember once in one of my winter walks coming upon a drift directly under a projecting fence beam, where the snow was striated as if with a comb from summit to base. There had been a light fall of snow over a hard crust, and the beginning of each trail appeared as a succession of dots indicating as many bounds of the falling objects, each at length forming a clean-cut furrow to the base of the drift. In this case the descent had been so easy and precipitous that the impetus of the original revolution of the nut had been maintained through- out, resulting in a disk-like form of snow two inches or more in diameter, with the nut perfectly visible at its centre. In the low fallows j~mong the wiry sedges you may observe the fresh-fallen snow decorated here and there with dainty rings, as true as if marked with a compass, each like a fairy circle surrounding some isolated stein. I have seen them by the hundreds upon the snow as well as upon the sand dunes at the sea-shore, and they were pretty mysteries until the analytic eye detected the revolving wind-blown stylus inscribing with its wiry tip. Here is the complement of the pendulums that hang aloft in the buttonwood-tree. There the seconds are recorded. Here is the dial whose shadow marks the hour. The snow covers and buries a multitude of earths features, but, at the same time, of secrets it is a great revealer. This white page is full of interest if one cares to read. It is alive with furry news not to be gath- ered at any other season. What a nerv- ous, eccentric, racy vernacular have these hardy little Arabs of the snowthe mice, the squirrels, and the birds! Their place in the wild country never seemed so spirit- edly manifest as now. How telling are their touches! A terse and graphic art indeed !a canto in a single couplet, a chapter at a touch of quill. Verily this esteemed contemporary has a busy lot of reporters. It is mostly, to be sure, a noc- turnal chronicle, but publishes a fresh post- script by sunrise every morning, and you will find that nothing has escaped that wide-awake night editor. The most trivia.l event of the hour, whether in park or swamp, or along back fence or corn crib, has been jotted down. Has the chipmunk sniffed the moonlight from her doorway that sniff is here. Have two deer-mice touched noses between the pickets of the fenceyou may confront them with their tell-tales to-morrow. Here are the records of the doings of bird and furry folk, who until now have followed their pleasure in the shadows without a witness. Now we can see what company they keep. Here ai-e paths of innocence and peacesome A WINTER WALK. 77 little field-mouse on a cross-lot visit to his neighbor, perhaps his mamma, over at the old homestead in yonder stump, or a quest of forage from the withered grass near by. All over the meadows and pastures these pretty trails are to be seen criss-crossing in every direction, like a railroad map with junction stations at every rock and tree and stump. They are the quaintest and sprightliest touches to be seen on this white counterpane. What a lively pictured record they leave behind them! What pulse - beats full of living story! Here is a trail that makes a curvet up the side of a neighbor- ing drift, and returns in a series of two or three quick, decisive jumpsa surprise, perhaps, or was it play ?so impulsive A MIDNIGHT TRAGEDY. 78 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. and recent that you can almost catch the last whisk of a retreating tail. Here are blurred beaten tracks to a pile of rails hard by, trails from every side, in single file, by twos, by threes, and whole families together. A favorite win- ter resort of our little seamstresses, with the door - yard all about scalloped and embroidered with their dainty filigrees. What a scene of squeaky gossip ia the moonlight! What pretty testimonies have we here! Cotillions! feathery qua- drilles! What were the little creatures doing to have left such witness in the snow, trotting about in circles, forward and backward, two rows together, balance corners, and all hands round! What a frolic in the snow! I have seen the snow- birds at some such play as this, finishing with a summer bath in the feathered rain. A lake has been likened by some poet to a mirrored world, where strong on weak, cunning on simple, prey. The snowy field affords a common no less sug- gestive. There are paths of innocence and peace, it is true, on every hand, but here also, alas! is the mark of Cain. Perhaps those squeaky voices beneath the wood - pile last night meant more than idle gossip, after all. Look! Following along here upon one of these more isola- ted trails we discover a large fluffy hol- low in the snow, with a red stain in its midst. A graphic picture this of one of winters nocturnal tragedies! The force- f~il imprint, the drop of blood, the ab- sence of any returning line of foot-prints, and the suggestive interval between the abrupt end of the trail and the deep hol- low in the snowhow plainly do they tell the story of the surprise at the petrifying glare of eyes from the shadows, the star- tled, hopeless leap for life, and the deadly swoop of wings from the neighboring tree, the vantage-ground of the owl! But even owls must live, and with such a festive board as this spread out inces- santly before them, it is not difficult to see how they, at least, bridge over the winter, and keep their phosphorescent fires aglow. But with the frozen earth as hard as rock and buried deep in snow, and its gar- ners locked in ice, one may naturally won- der where the other multitudinous little mouths of the wilderness find their food. White buntings and snow-birds are driv- en to farm-yards, the jays and even the quail are glad of the sweepings from the barn floor, and are grateful for crumbs from barracks and corn-crib. All beto- kens a season of dearth in the foodless wilds. To be sure, many of the mice and squirrels have anticipated this white fam- ine, and in a measure provided against it, as the chipmunk with his hoard of hazel- nuts and shell-barks, the deer-mouse with his bin of beech-nuts nicely shelled. But even these, and many of the winter birds especially, would often fare hard indeed were it not for the numerous weeds and other plants which, though dried and withered, have remembered their needy friends, and still hold their provender of seeds above the snow. A weed has been described as a plant whose virtues have not been discovered. Many of our commonest pests in the way of weeds now redeem themselves, and seeni to show an adequate reason for their being. The rag-weed is a conspicuous ex- ample. See yonder eager troop of gold- finches and snow-birdshow they revel in the feast among the withered stems! Rag-weed, hog-weed, bitter-weed, it shall be called no more, but by its rightful and less ignominious title, ambrosia------ambro- sia, food for the gods. It must be the food of the gods, if anything, says Bur- roughs, for, as far as I have observed, nothing terrestrial eats it, not even billy- goats. Of course he was alluding to the plant proper, and was not thinking of its winter provender. With the insectivorous birds, such as the nut-hatch, the brown creeper, golden-crest- ed wren, and woodpecker, the food supply is not so materially affected by the deep snows. Their tables are spread above- ground, and nothing but a freezing rain- storm which incases the branches in ic~ can lock them out from their larder. In the loose scales of bark of various trees, with their numerous tidbits of tufted spiders eggs, beetles, chrysalids, and va- rious larv~, there is alone an abundant harvest. Every dried leaf among the branches is explored for the possible and probable cocoon; the cluster of eggs of the apple-tree moth are eagerly sought among the orchard twigs; and every hang- ing cone upon pine or spruce is probed for spiders by hundreds of hungry bills. I once observed a chickadee thus engaged among some hemlock cones, and in the act he dislodged a number of their remnant winged seeds, which, though an insect feeder, he eagerly pursued and picked up on the snow. Following up the hint, hc~ A WINTER WALK. 79 afterward repeated the operation again and again, jumping on the slender branches with as much gravity as such a light-hearted little puff could command. There was soon a goodly spread upon the snow, with which a posse of English sparrows uncere- moniously made free, and soon monopo- lized, but none of them seemed to possess wit enough to repeat the engineering feat which they had evidently witnessed, and the chickadee doubtless learned wisdom from experience, and was careful on the next occasion to keep an eye out for spec- tators. The cones of the alder sim- ilarly furnish food for the birds through the winter. A smart shake of an al- der bush at this season will sometimes pepper the snow with the round brown seeds which the wind has failed to dislodge. The stomach of a seed-eatin~ bird might prove a -~i veritable herbarium to the botanist at this season. The variety thus represented in a single meal is often sur prising, considering the natural deprivations of the winter REYNARD IN LUCK. months. By a fortunate train of weather conditions I was once favored with a phenomenon by which almost the entire vegetable bill of fare of the winter birds, at least in the way of seeds, was spread out before mebrought to my feet, as it were. 80 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Walking upon the firm and polished snow crust, picking my way along a rail- fence at the foot of a steep sloping pasture, I suddenly aroused into flight a flock of small birds from behind the bulwark of drifts with which the fence was hemmed in and partially buried. So loud was the united flutter of their wings that it at first suggested the whir of a partridge, until I saw it dissipated in the flock of smaller fry above the edge of the drift. They proved to be, as I remember, mostly snow-birds, white buntings, and goldfinclies, though doubtless the cedar-birds, winter wrens tree - sparrows, pine and purple finches, were also among them. Their noisy flight was the signal for a general alarm all along the line, following the fence for several hundred feet, each zigzag corner sending up its winged bevy to perch and twitter upon the upper rails. Almost ev- ery projecting beani had its chirruping sentinel. Interested to discover the secret of such a great feathery convocation, I crept up to the edge of the slippery drift and looked over. Beyond the fence rose the sleek, white, glistening slope of the pasture, a furlong or more in width, its surface mot- tled with its brown withered vegetation. Following the rambling rails on either side were drifts of the most fantastic form, now and then almost peering above the fence riders, and between them ran a wind- ing valley, in which the old fence seemed to be walking knee-deep in snow. It need- ed only a second glance into this hollow, from whence the startled flocks had flown, to understand its attractiveness for the birds. Its depths were fairly littered with the choicest kind of ahiment. The very cream of time pasture had flowed into this trough. It was the hopper which had re- ceived the entire wind-blown tribute of the weedy upland that looked down upon. it, and of the overhanging woods far up the slope. Here were windrows of vari- ous seeds which had been dislodged from the weeds and trees and blown along the glassy snow to be caught in this con- venient bin. The small goblet- shaped holloxys around the projectiiig grass stems were full to the brim with their good cheer, and the deeper vales and gullies were marked out everywhere by theim~ brown meandering lines of intermingled chaff and seeds, often to the depth of two inches om more. A happy valley and a land of plenty, surely! I sometimes wonder who shall be the first true interpreter of the hieroglyphic of the woodpecker on the apple-tree. Ev- ery one has seen these punctured rings cir- cling the orchard trees, and much has beeii written concerniiig them. But as yet I feel that the inner depths of these quaint pits have never been sounded. If I were to trust the pleasant counsel of my inward A WINTER BOUQUET. WYVERN MOAT. 81 eye, I should fancy that this carefully punctuated inscription had a deeper sg- nificancethat this old sculptured apple- tree was the bulletin of the birds, and that tbe downy woodpecker was their appoint- ed scribe. See how curiously they follow the mystic circlesa bluebird, and now a nut-hatch, or a chickadee. May they not be gathering the latest news from all fea- therdom? The snow - bound winter days often crowd the birds very close for food, and they are driven to all sorts of expedients to obtain the modicum of fuel necessary to keep their little corporeal furnaces agoing, and this, too, at a season when those interior fires are most needful to combat the bard dull bitterness of cold. The ruffled grouse is often forced to bank his fires beneath the snow, burrowing deep into the drift to smoulder through the blus- tering night. After a fresh snow-fall it is not an uncommon thing for the winter walker to come upon these evidences of the birds sagacious instinct. Sometimes, too, similar burrows will be found leading to some patch of partridge-vine or other winter feeding or breeding ground. Often, no (loubt, these snowy tunnels are used for refuge, but they are not without their per- ils. It is a lucky day for iReynard when he follows up a trail to one of these hid ing- places or feeding grounds beneath the drift, as doubtless occasionally happens. But for the present my winter walk must be brought to an end; and, after all, how little to the purpose have I conveyed in all this talk! There is a plenteous eye- harvest in these winter fields, it is true; but this is only the husk. Like the squirrel with his nut, I have let in a little light; but, like him again, I have bestowed only the shell and kept the kernel. WYVERN MOAT. THINK I saw you the other morning sketch- ing an old gateor the ivy-covered wall, was it ?part of the old priory by the cliff path. i~t was a dear, quaint little old lady, next whom I had sat during rather a long ~nd serious dinner party at a friends house in a little sea-side town where I was sketching one summer long ago. who said this in one of the pauses. She cared more, I think, to keep the not very bounding ball of conversation going merrily to amid fro than for the crumbling gateway or ivied wall, or my sketch either, for that matter. I confessed to the truth of her surmise, and added, And 1)0 doubt you wondered why I had such bad taste as to sit there broiling in the sun, turning my back to the lovely sea, and breaking my heart over a mass of rusty iron and weedy rubbish. She laughed that little vague laugh of half pro- test, half assent, which means so well to be plea- sant anyway, and replied: Well, of course, I should have sketched that curve of coast-line and the fisher-boats and the far stretch of sea; but then I am only a very little amateur, still very fond of it; and you, I take it, are professional, and have a motive in doing such out-of-the-way tImings. Are you just now enamored of weedy old gardens ? Indeed I am, and that was all too modern and unsympathetic. I wish to hear of some sixteenth-century garden, if possibleor seventeenth will dowhere they have kept the old flower beds and terraces and espaliers, where the sun-dial is crusted with moss and lichen, and the yews are clipped in fantastic shapes, and there is an -~ ~,j / 1 ~ IL

WYVERN MOAT. 81 eye, I should fancy that this carefully punctuated inscription had a deeper sg- nificancethat this old sculptured apple- tree was the bulletin of the birds, and that tbe downy woodpecker was their appoint- ed scribe. See how curiously they follow the mystic circlesa bluebird, and now a nut-hatch, or a chickadee. May they not be gathering the latest news from all fea- therdom? The snow - bound winter days often crowd the birds very close for food, and they are driven to all sorts of expedients to obtain the modicum of fuel necessary to keep their little corporeal furnaces agoing, and this, too, at a season when those interior fires are most needful to combat the bard dull bitterness of cold. The ruffled grouse is often forced to bank his fires beneath the snow, burrowing deep into the drift to smoulder through the blus- tering night. After a fresh snow-fall it is not an uncommon thing for the winter walker to come upon these evidences of the birds sagacious instinct. Sometimes, too, similar burrows will be found leading to some patch of partridge-vine or other winter feeding or breeding ground. Often, no (loubt, these snowy tunnels are used for refuge, but they are not without their per- ils. It is a lucky day for iReynard when he follows up a trail to one of these hid ing- places or feeding grounds beneath the drift, as doubtless occasionally happens. But for the present my winter walk must be brought to an end; and, after all, how little to the purpose have I conveyed in all this talk! There is a plenteous eye- harvest in these winter fields, it is true; but this is only the husk. Like the squirrel with his nut, I have let in a little light; but, like him again, I have bestowed only the shell and kept the kernel. WYVERN MOAT. THINK I saw you the other morning sketch- ing an old gateor the ivy-covered wall, was it ?part of the old priory by the cliff path. i~t was a dear, quaint little old lady, next whom I had sat during rather a long ~nd serious dinner party at a friends house in a little sea-side town where I was sketching one summer long ago. who said this in one of the pauses. She cared more, I think, to keep the not very bounding ball of conversation going merrily to amid fro than for the crumbling gateway or ivied wall, or my sketch either, for that matter. I confessed to the truth of her surmise, and added, And 1)0 doubt you wondered why I had such bad taste as to sit there broiling in the sun, turning my back to the lovely sea, and breaking my heart over a mass of rusty iron and weedy rubbish. She laughed that little vague laugh of half pro- test, half assent, which means so well to be plea- sant anyway, and replied: Well, of course, I should have sketched that curve of coast-line and the fisher-boats and the far stretch of sea; but then I am only a very little amateur, still very fond of it; and you, I take it, are professional, and have a motive in doing such out-of-the-way tImings. Are you just now enamored of weedy old gardens ? Indeed I am, and that was all too modern and unsympathetic. I wish to hear of some sixteenth-century garden, if possibleor seventeenth will dowhere they have kept the old flower beds and terraces and espaliers, where the sun-dial is crusted with moss and lichen, and the yews are clipped in fantastic shapes, and there is an -~ ~,j / 1 ~ IL HIS ATHLETIC YOUNG MISTRESS. WYVERN MOAT. 83 old bowling-green and a lily-padded fount- ain. Do you happen to know of such a place ? The old lady smiled an indulgent smile. She did not exactly say with the modern slangist, Thats rather an extensive or- der, but she quietly remarked its equiva- lent, You are not at all exacting, I see, with a very merry laugh; and then, after a nioments thou~1it, she asked, Do you know Wyvern Moat ? I shook my Lead. She went on: No, I fancy not. I find few people do know it; it is rather se- cluded; but when you do find it, if you do, I think you will find many things ih and about it that will interest you. She then gave me its bearings; how to get to it by railsome teii miles; then a four-mile walk or drive would bring me to it. Dont blame me, now, if you dont hap- pen to like it. I know of nothing more queer; perhaps a little too queer for some; but you must take your chance; and should you go, I should like, if we meet again, to hear what you think of it. I was writing down the brief directions I had received from her on that handy tablet, a goodly wristband, when the la- dies rose from the table. I held aside the heavy porti~res while they passed into the drawing-room. The old lady caine last, and as she went by me she said, from be- hind her black fan, and with rather a weight of impressiveness I did not quite understand, You wont forget, Wyvern Moat No, in deed; I wont forget it. I could have sworn I heard her mumble to herself, into the depths of her shadowy fan, No, indeed, you wont, if ever you go. Next day was gray, sad, and autumnal, with a damp shudder in the wind that promised or threatened rain. However, when on thoughts of sketching bent, I seldom wait for wind or weather to make up its mind. One gets into sad habits of uncertainty and fickleness. The convenient railway soon landed me at the little sleepy way-side station indi- cated as nearest to the Moat. I asked the station-master the way, to make quite sure before I started on my walk, and I thought at the time that my simple question seeni- ed to awaken in him more than a passing degree of interest. He seemed to run over my points with a critical eye, as if deter- mined to know me again if called upon to VOL. LXXII.No. 4276 point me out. Wyvern Moat, be re- peated, after me. Master Craye, e live therethas to say, e did live there. Es dead, I spose you know. His widow keeps it on yet; but she wants to let it, I hear. I shouldnt care to live there my- self; but then that aint likely. Parties (10 go there now and then to look at the place; some on em sketches it, as you may be go- iii to (10; but there aint much stirrin there sence C died; and there aint likely to be, less somebody else takes it. Before proceeding further I ought to mention my travelling companion a piiik-eyed, satin-ski iined, sinewy bull-ter- rier, Tulip, by name proper, but nick- named so variously and recklessly, accord- ing to the taste of her many friends and admirers, that the poor animal scarcely ever knew when she was called; but as she seldom or never did come when call- ed, unless it was for a visible bone, this peculiarity did not winch matter. Next to a bone she dearly loved a good long country ramble. She knew very well what a sketch-book and white umbrella meant; she would respond to that when a French novel and a thin walking-stick would have no motive power over her. She was a sad fraud altogether; her prize- fighter head, with its vast jowl and pro- jecting nuder lip, its fine dental display when she smiled her summer smile, all meant no real harmshe was the lamb of little Mary for gentleness. Nothing seem- ed to pain her so much a.s the wild terror that her most amiable grin would inspire among a group of happy children play- ing by the way-side. She gladly would have licked their candied lips if only per- mitted so to do. She went about always with that aggrieved and hurt air of those who fancy themselves misunderstood. Even lieu sudden and erratic gambols among the barn-yard fowls were only to encourage them to play with her. The only beings she did not try to show her pretty side to were tramps and loafers. The satin-back coat would ruffle up om- inously and the little shark-like teeth would be displayed to an uncomfortable extent whenever any of these victims of ard lines came too near. More than once I have heard the growled-at tramp mutter to himself as we strode past, I dont thiuik a bloke as got a right to go about with a dorg like o that ere. Our walk was cheery enough. It was along oiie of thuose hard, broad, well-kept 84 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. high-roadsan old coach roadthat one sees to such perfection still in England. Now and then distant glimpses of the sea would shimmer between the openings of the billowy downs. So fair and enticing were the far stretches of upland and low- land pastures, laced with silvery bands of rush - marged waterways, dotted about with sheep and kine, wreathed here and there with soft gray smoke from stubble- burners fires, that I almost forgot my quest, and allowed myself to be given away to the ever-lovely things about me that were wooing me to enjoy them. Plodding steadily along, we soon came to the top of a gentle hill, from which, down the long decline on the other side, I could see unfolded, as it were a map of the region I was in search of. There among the trees, with its creaky sign nenr to a sloppy horse-trough, was the Packhorse Inn. Further on I could trace the lane that was the near way to the Moat. And there, among a belt of ragged, wind-blown pines, were the broketi lines of roofs and gables and turrets, was the Moat itself. It looked quite home- like through the little field-glass I brought to bear upon it. It must be a good two miles away down there among the trees. So we would take a little refreshment by the way-side spring, and enjoy the pros- pect fair through the curly smoke of a cigarette, and then race down the hill, the seraph and I, to make up for dawd- ling on the road. The near way was along a deeply rutted lane, bringing up finally at a padlocked farm gate. This was easily got over, but it led through back kitchen-gardens, past a couple of for- lorn tumble-down cottages, then in course either of restoration or destruction one could not tellactive operations were evi- den tly suspended-and they were taking their own road to decay. I could see an- other wicket-gate leading into a broad path that seemed to lead to a stream or pon(l that led to the Moat itself. I could hear growlings and yappings of various watch-dogs; one deep-voiced bark seemed to come from the kind of animal one would rather keep clear of. Tulip had raised a deep canine interest by lifting up her own melodious bat uncalled-for howl. It was too tedious and undignified to go back and round by the front approach, so we pursued our way over the other gate, along a path with a high brick wall on one side and a weedy stream on the other neither practicable, in case of necessity, for sudden retreat. Further on I could see a quaintly carven gateway of brick and stone. Moving toward it to get a better view, the small door that had been cut in the larger one suddenly opened, and there issued forth with more speed than eleoance an overgrown, half-fran- tic mastiff, with a tall, powerful-looking young lady clinging firmly to his mass- ive collar. Luckily Tulip and I were both of a mind. We walked straight on our way toward the baying brute and his athletic young mistress, and that seemed to restore quiet and establish more con- fideii ce. Keep quiet, Shan.I nra so glad you didnt try to go back, or I could not have held him iii. I smiled in response to the very cheery tone with which she said this, as if she saw me with Tulip in futile re- treat, and that howling brute taking snaps at our flying forms. In fact, at that mo- ment we were all smiling, as if the whole incident was a well-planned surprise. The great hulking mastiff was positively beam- I n~ on Tulip, and that cherub was simper- ing in return as if she had found a long- lost sweetheart. I hastened to assure the young lady that long knowledge of the subtle ways of big dogs led me to the course of action she was good enough to commend in me, and I then proceeded briefly to explain my quest of a sketch- able old garden. Before I had quite made it all clear to her we were joined by an- other inmate of the house, who hind prob- ably come to see how Shari was getting on with what remained of tIre casual stranger. It was a very aged, impish looking young man who joined us, not exactly a dwarf, for he was too well proportioned, nor a growing lad, as lie seemed to have done with all further development of body, at least. The young part of him seemed his face and expression, when it lighted up with a kindly, childish smile, and tIne next instant the look faded out and gave place to one of sadness and gravity, and then the face and look seemed aged with inward care. The young lady seemed to defer somewhat to what lie might have to say to my sketching proposal. He took to it kindly enough, personally, and said to the young lady, Oh, that will be all right; but to make sure, I will run in and ask Mains. I gave him my card and wrote my address on it, and a line to ex WYVERN MOAT. 85 plain what I was in search of. Wont you come in meanwhile and see if the garden is what you want? It is in ~ sad condition just now, as we began altering and improving it, and for the moment it has to be left as it is. We passed through the little door in the great one, and I soon found myself walking about in what seemed a series of garden scenes from some Elizabethan play. The garden was on various levels, with stone terraces and broad steps leading thereto, with lichen-splashed balustrades on either side; a broad upper walk shaded with an avenue of fantastically clipped yew-trees, a mossy fountain with crum- bling gray stone seats about it, a bowling- green with more clipped trees and fruit trees in espalier about it. It was mad- deningly perfect even in its ruin and decay (to the artistic eye more probably than in the practical sense). I broke out in lav- ish praise of its many charms to me; but the young lady took a very different view of the matter. ~The only thing I see is a sad state of ruin and neglect. If poor Mr. Craye had lived, he intended to re- pair and improve all that you admire so much. Indeed! I said, with some dismay at the prospect. Would he have scraped off all the stains and moss from that fount- ain, and the pale green lichens from the sun-dial ? I think so, she said, calmly; but he was a very variable man, and one day he would fancy the idea of restoring and scraping everything thoroughly, and an- other day he would talk of the beauty of all this decay, just as you do, just as if he only wanted to sketch it, and not to live with it and have it tidy. It was a wide, vexed question, and she was a young person of very decided views. I felt that discussion was not the better part of valor, and I also felt a certain re- lief when the aged youth returned with a kindly message from his mother that I n)ight sketch where and as much as I pleased, and that she herself would join us in a few minutes. We had walked toward the house, and were inspecting a carved window in one of the turrets, when the door opened, and a sad, prematurely whit- ened, but kindly smiling lady came for- ward, and in a few pleasant words made us welcome. She even patted the bullet head of Tulip, to the seeming delight of that smiling seraph. The lady of the Moat was holding my card still in her hand to refer to the name again. It transpired that she knew some one whom I also knew, and she had heard them mention my name in some kindly way; thus my card turned out to be a sort of letter of introduction, and we were no longer absolute strangers. Now that we know each other so well,she said, with a smile, let me introduce you to Miss Lisle; and this is my son Howard. I bowed ceremoniously, and Miss Lisle rath- er stiffly, as if she did not quite see the good of it all. I praised the old garden and the house from the outside,which led to an immediate invitation to see the in- terior. We all went in, followed by Shan and Tulip, who seemed to have by this time sworn eternal friendship. The house inside was a curious mixture of surprises, of delights and disappointments. The re- storer had not quite done his worst, but he had had a good try for it. There had been extensive restorations of trivial things, while good old work of importance had been played the fool with. Much of this restoration that had been so carefully thought out and controlled by my poor husband has been done any- how since his death. I have no heart or wish to look after it. My only hope is to sell or let it and go back to town. There was a sad, wan smile of anticipation on the widows face as she spoke the last words, and her son caught also a gleam from the same source. Whenwhen do you think it will be, Mums? Soon, I hope. Do try to look more cheerful over it, Howard. or no one will care to take the place if they see your face, said Miss Lisle, grimly. I think I could be perfectly happy here, said I, with all the rash, airy as- surance of the nexv-comer. There was a decided smile of incredu- lity on the face of each, and the youth made it a cheery laugh of derision even. Aswe passed slowly from room to room and there were many of themI gathered from the gentle ripple of sad conversation of the widow that her husband had been dead about a year, that he had spent a deal more money on tIme estate than lie in- tended, and that lie was in many ways disappointed amid saddened with his ex- perience of tIme place; that after his death many of his choice works of art had gone to a sale in town, the proceeds to fill up 86 gaps in his withering fortune. The re- maining portion of the furniture and deco- rative things was kept back to give an air of cheerfulness to the house in case a new tenant should offer himself. We wandered slowly about the house, admir- ing the various views from the windows, especially one looking seaward. It is all very pretty now as you see it, remarked the plain - spoken youth, but you ought to look at it in March, when the wind blows from the east. Ugh ! Howard, you are too dreadful, said the fond mother, patting him on the shoul- der. Why, you have always said so your- self, mother. There! I dont think I could have the face to stand by quietly and see any one buying this place without betray- ing myself in some way. There will be but small chance of our going to town soon, my dear boy, unless I dispose of it. So dont talk nonsense. I, for my part, still kept praising its va- rious beauties, but I could easily imagine how deadly it would pall on anybody when once it began. Well, then, said the utterly frank Howard, why dont you take it, if you like it so much? We will let it go cheap, ghosts and allwont we, mother ? My dear boy, I really will be vexed with you if you cant contrive to show a little more sense, not to say discretion. And the patient, long - suffering widow looked at him with a fixed, pained expres- sion that seemed to have a hidden depth of meaning, more than I could hope to fathom at the time. Just at the last words of his too frank speech, the severe Miss Lisle joined us again, and she added the gray glare from her cold, clear eyes to the widows pained glance, to such a degree that the poor youth seemed to chill and get restless un- der it. For myself, I fear I betrayed the inward amusement I felt for the moment at the curious manifestations of embarrass- ment of the little group at seeing one of the family secrets unwittingly exposed to the first careless comer. Do you believe at all in such things I said the wid6w, addressing me. In reply, I told the anecdote of Charles LambI think it waswho, when asked if he believed in ghosts, said, No,madam, not I; I have seen too many to believe in them ! They did not offer to smile at the wit of the genial Elia. They seemed even sad- der than before. Dont talk about them, said Miss Lisle, with chill shiver of indrawn breath. You ought to have a very choice so- ciety of them in a fine old house of this kind. If I lived here, I think I should make friends with them, and learn to love them, just for the sake of company. The gray, searching eyes were bent on me for a moment, and then, with cold se- riousness, the young lady replied to my airy tone: If you lived here, you might get to talk in a different strain some day. I tried to impart a little cheerfulness into tIme subject, but all in vain. I came to a bad end. May I ask, without seem- ing overcurious-in case I wished ever to take the placehas it any regular haunt, or does it roam about at large? Has it a kind of anniversary appearance or does it wander on any odd night it likes ? Miss Lisle sat down wearily on the win- dow-seat, and stared at me so hard and icily that it seemed like a rain of hail- stones in ones eyes. Mrs. Crayc looked for a moment pained and puzzled at me, and said, somewhat sadly, I should be sorry to think that you consider this a subject to joke lightly about; it may be nothing but idle gossip to others. but to me it is all very painful and serious. I need not say how fully and sincerely I sought to apologize for intruding on such delicate ground as to ask about the per- sonal habits of the family spectre; and I even went to the extent of regretting, with some show of contrition, that I had been so rude as to seem to doubt its existence. It had now become time to think of my sketch, and I hinted as much, but just then a pale, scared-looking little maid came in, and announced tea. I was most kindly pressed to join them over the cheering cup, and there was such a tone of forgive- ness and heartiness in the invitation that I gladly accepted. I am afraid I lost all thought of my sketch again, talking about the delightful old tea set of Chelsea ware, and the queer little bits of Queen Anne silver that dur- ing our tea chatter the now thawed-out and almost genial Miss Lisle brought out of the tall Chippendale china closets for my inspection. Time widow said, seeing my deep interest in these things, Of course I tried to understand and like ev- erything that my poor husband collected, but I dont think I succeeded so well with HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. e WYVERN MOAT. anything as his china and silver: we used to be thoroughly in sympathy on that score. The china topic soon merged into the subject of enamels and old miniatures, and then another cabinet was unlocked and a small drawer full of earlyFrench and English examples was displayed and admired and discussed. I lost all sense of the quick-fleeting mo- ments. I forgot the sketch, and even for- got that the only train that was left me to catch would be at that somewhat dis- tant railway station in a lamentably short space of time. When, however, this con- dition of things dawned upon me at last, I hastily rose to make my adieux with the best grace that a marked desire for a speedy departure would permit. Alas! I had lingered just too long. Master How- ard turned to me from the window, out of which he had been watching something very quietly, and with a tone of half en- joyment in what he had to impart, re- marked, You cant sketch now, and you cant go either, for it has come on to rain, and in a few minutes it will just pour. Look at the black clouds coming toward us over the hills ! A little rain wont hurt. I think I must run for it, too, I urged, or miss the last train. The kind lady of the Moat here inter- posed, and urged me to stay until the mor- row, saying, You have made no sketch, and you will return empty-handed. She looked, too, so sincerely in earnest that I hesitated, and began to think it prudent and even polite to remain. The rain was then driving in wild gusts against the window-panes. The air was filled with a sudden dark; The rain and wind came on together. Even Howard took my hand in both of his, and said, earnestly, Do staydo ! There was really no special need to get back on my part. I had often staid away overnight when I went any distance, and I had even come prepared in this instance to do so if necessity required. I listened to the rumble and roar of the driving storm, and I listened also to the voice of hospitality. Oh, my word! shouted Howard, as a flash of vivid lightning tore across the sky, followed by a far too neighborly roar of booming thunder, you must be glad you are not out in that! It was one of those wild, drenching storms that prove to us how futile are um- brellas, and how dangerous are trees and hay-stacks as shelter. I returned the friend- ly pressure of the boys hand, and thanked him for urging me to stay, as it was his look and tone as much as anything that decided me. Now that the gale had made me a temporary guest, the manner of my young host became entirely genial and unrestrained. I was no longer the casual wayfarer, but the guest of the house. He said, with an air of camaraderie: Do you mind coming with me? I dont know where the ladies have gone down in the wine-cellar probably, they are so afraid of lightning. Come with me and I will show you your room. I wish youd show me how you draw. You will to-morrow, wont you? I am so glad you staid over, it is so jolly dull and miserable here sometimes. Oh, its awful! I wish you were going to stay longer, or else coni- ing back to us again. He seemed perfectly sincere with all his apparent gush of sudden friendship. Where had gone all his former look of shy, uncanny sensitiveness? Something had come over him to show out the trust- ful and sympathetic side of his nature so suddenly. We went through dim passages and up a winding stair to a little snug room in one of the turrets. The window looked toward the sea and the morning sun. There was a bright air of modernity in the vari- ous concessions to comfort shown in many ways about the tidy little apartment. Ev- erything, too, was in excellent keeping with the surroundings. This is not one of its rooms, is it ? said I, smiling. He looked askance a moment, and then, with a half-apologetic laugh: Oh, the No. Now I say, you really need not mind what we were talking aboutyou know. Do you really care about such things yourself ? Well, said I, the fact is,I notice that though there is room enough here and to spare for me, yet if I should have such a visitor it might be crowded, unless it sat on the bed. The poor fellow looked hurt. It was evidently not thought to be good form in that house to frivol when alluding to the family spectre. Would you like a larger room ? he said; because there is one; but if I were you I should prefer this. 87 88 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. No, thank you; I like the look of this one immensely. Now if they should offer you the big panelled room, mind you say you much prefer this, said Howard, with a solemn air, and in a low whisper too tragical to trifle with. We made our way back to the sitting- room. The evening had turned cold and drear outside, and the hearth fire of odor- ous logs xvas cheering and home-like. There were many apologies from the ladies for the short-comings of the inform- al little dinner, but there was that pretty air of grace and welcome over it all that would make a red herring and a glass of water seem a banquet. The conversation was fluent and pleasant enough. I was sadly conscious of much effort on my part to avoid any further allusion to the dear old family skeleton. The younger lady seemed mostly withdrawn within herself. The only kind of smile she had to offer was of cool indulgence or of chilly cynicism, and sometimes I noticed that her features would let their fine classic curves play about with expressions that were almost too hard and cruel for beauty to be asso- ciated with at any price. Her eyes had the effect at times of sparks playing under half-dead ashes. The lights would dim over and chill, and almost fade to extinc- tion; and then, at some word or inward thought, some power would breathe upon them from within, and they would flame and flare again into a cold blaze. Cu- riously enough, too, when this bale-fire seemed to be glowing the deepest, she would be trying to say or do some kindly thing. Then, again, as the fire died out to a rose-ash gray, and she would look dreamily out from under her long shad- owy lashes, the thin, cruel curve of her set lips, like the meaning smile of the co- bra, would be her only sign of animation. I noticed that Mrs. Craye, in address- ing her now and again, called her Bar- bara. At once the sound of the name set the lines of Aldrich running in my head: Barbara has a falcons eye, And a soft white hand has Barbara. Beware! for to make you wish to die, To make you as pale as the moon or I, Is a pet trick with Barbara. It was still going on as I watched her Merrily bloweth the summer wind, Bot cold and cruel is Barbara when Mrs. Craye interrupted my reverie with, Did you like the old tapestry in your room ? It then transpired that I had not been shown the tapestry or the room. What room did you have shown you, then ? The little room in the turret, which I found most charming and snug and invit- ing, I answered, with much enthusiasm. No, no; not at all; the turret room was not made ready, and Howard should not have shown it ; arid a deal more was urged by both ladies. Besides, it was explained that there was a fire in the tapestry room, and all had been prepared there for me; and not only thatthey wanted me to tell them in the morning a~ut the tapestry and the oak furniture and the fittings of the room. Howard tried to catch my eye, but I rather avoided his look. Tire best of everything is good enough for me, I said, with as calm a face as I could assume while using a well-worn joke. May I have my Tulip with me, to lie on the rug by the door ? I asked, carelessly. There was a smile of amusement on Miss Barbaras face, genuine amusement, almost without malice. I am only afraid she may howl the place down, if not somewhere near me, I urged. Now if you will only own that you are just a little nervous, I am sure that Mrs. Craye will let you have Shan to pro- tect Tulip as well as yourself. The mal- ice seemed flaring back in Barbaras eye as she said this with a trifle more of crudi- ty than she need have used in her tone. I did not care to reply in kind, so I merely bowed umy thanks as gravely as if she had meant to be civil. Howard came to tire rescue. Theres your doghistemi ! And sure enough the mellow wail of Tulipwe at home, who knew its full compass, used to call it the fog-horn was heard from the stables, where she had been given quarters. Does he generally go on like that all night ? asked Mrs. Craye, with a look of foreboding. My dear madam, that is but a mild tuning up to the grand opera we may expect if sire is left out away from those sIre loves. That means, in Tulips lan- guage, Home, sweet home. I thought I saw a relenting smile even on the face of Barbara. I dont mind it myself much, I said, but I cant think of let- ting you run the chance of hearing it all night without previously warning you. WYVERN MOAT. 89 If I might have a few missilescoals, bot- tles, anything will doto fling at her when she gets to her finer effect, Idont mind. Perhaps the best way would be for you to let her be with you, remarked Mrs. Craye, much to my relief. Miss Barbara must have noticed my in- ward satisfaction, as she said, rather wick- edly, Are you quite sure you would not like a loaded gun as well ?~ It was getting rather awkward for me. I did not wish to talk about the wretched thing at all, not seriously at least; my lit- tle attempts at banter had been received so badly that I wished to avoid the subject, and now they seemed inclined to jest about it themselves. When, however, she saw that I only smiled at her efforts to draw me out, she relapsed into moody silence, regarding me from time to time with the look of a blonde Sphinx. When the ladies had bidden us good- night and left us to ourselves, Howard came round the table, quite near to me, and laying his little cold hand on mine, said, Miss Lisle was in one of her severe moods to - night, but you mustnt mind her; she can be awfully nice sometimes. He told me again how glad he was that I had staid over, a fresh face was so rare in that lone place. He lamented that I had not stood out for the turret room, it was so snug and fresh; he had slept there him- self, and could speak from knowledge. And so we talked on until it was time to retire, and then taking our candles, we wended our way along an echoing pas- sage, up little unexpected break-neck steps, and down others as unexpectedly, until we came to the tapestry room. He did not open the door, but said: You go in while I see about your doggie. I fancy it is down in the kitchen. They have tak- en her in to keep her quiet. I did not enter, but waited for him in the passage. Tulip soon came bounding along with howls of delightinsane enough to fright- en the entire household. A flapping cur- tain, blown from a draught that came through a broken pane, streamed across the gusty passage, and looked in the dim light, as I stood by the door, like some ca- reering wraith. It blew out the light and whisked the candlestick from How- ards hand as he came by it. I went to his assistance with my own candle to look for his and pick up the scattered matches, when my light was blown out as well. We groped about Un- til we found his candlestick and a few matches. They wont light here, he said; give me your hand and I will lead you to your door. When the lightning was obliging enough to give us a stray gleam through the broken window, we found the door, and I followed him into the room. I expected to find the apart- ment cheered and brightened by the promised fire on the hearth. I could only make out where the hearth should be by a few spots of smoulderiag flame flickering and sputtering as from green mossy wood, attended with more than its due share of acrid smoke, blown down the chimney by the eddying gusts. When the candles were once more light- ed I could see that the room was of good- ly size and proportions, furnished with an array of oaken furniture of mixed design and periods, but mostly of seventeenth cen- tury. The wainscoting was of oak of a grubby and jaded tone. It looked as if it had been painted at one time of a leaden hue by some vandal, and had been scraped and cleaned again lately, not wisely or well. The tapestry was also jaded and faded; and sad in color and in subjects. They seemed mostly Scriptural. On one was a blowsy Flemish Judith issuing from a Flemish tent ~vith the gory head of Holofernes. The other pieces were of kin- dred subjects for cheerfulness. The most lightsome was of the Prodigal Son among ladies of doubtful style of costumes as well as proprieties. The bed was a great showy structure of carved oak. Most of it was made up of odds and ends of materi- al that had once been parts of sideboards and old chests. The general effect was more that of a pagoda than a couch of ease. It was more calculated to murder sleep than to induce it. My young friend, after vainly trying to animate the sullen fire, soon left me to myself. I found an old rug, and folded it before the door for Tulip to sleep on. She, however, with her usual perversity, would have nothing to do with it, either before the door or near the sputtering fire. She rather preferred quite the far- ther corner of under the bed and on the bare boards. Even there she did not seem happy, but blinked at me out of her pink-edged eyes with a reproachful look that meant, Oh why did I Icave my home ! Sleep, indeed! I soon found that this 90 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. deadly quiet old room in this far-away old moated house had more than its share of the noises that jar upon the wakeful ear at midnight, and seem to make the awful silences they break all the more weird and unearthly. This was, however, by no means a night of deadly silences. The wind rioted about the place as if let loose from Bedlam, rasping the boughs of a swaying pine against the window-panes near by, waltzing about with screaming and creaking an unanointed weather-cock, and whirring the complaining smoke-cowl overhead, banging loose shutters and un- fastened doors far and near all over the rambling house. I was almost impatient and vexed with these varied weird voices of the night, as in the event of a spectral footstep I should miss it unless it strode about in fishermans boots. I seemed to be pain- fully awake and staring hard at a thin strip of gray light between the heavy cur- tains and the wild sky, wishing it might be dawn. The storm was lulling some- what; the rain no more buffeted the rat- tling panes of leaded glass. The many sounds, too, were merging into painful silences. I could hear the ticking of my watch beside my bed. Suddenly I felt as if there passed through me a strange chill shudder, as if a cold blast of church-yard damp had been let into the room; and at the same moment slowly, slowly, yet with deadly, quiet force, the great stuffy pillow seemed to be moving from under my head. With all my force I tried to press my head down upon it, and still it slowly moved until it rested across my face. I was about to raise my hand to replace it, when it was caught upon my breast and pressed there with a grip of steel. I then tried the other hand, and that was crossed upon my breast, and held there as if in a vise. I then tried to lift myself bodily, but the weight of a ton seemed upon me. I could see nothing, hear nothing, except a sound like a rush of water in my ears. I could scarcely breathe. The one thought at this juncture was, Well, what next? I listened with all my might as I thought I heard a dim sem- blance of a voice near my ear, scarcely above a whisper, mutter: Dont try your strength against mine, or it will be worse for you. You are not dealing with a child. So I kept quiet, and waited for a further move. All that time the heavy pillow was flat across my face, and pressed down so that I could scarcely move my head be- neath it. I listened with all my might for a further whisper, and as I did so I seemed to feel the grip on my hands relax, and the same voice mutter again: You may go free this time, but re- member Gradually the power came back to my numbed hands. I took the pillow from my face and put it back, and jammed my head hard down into it, and began to won- der if it had all been a bad dream. I set- tled myself as well as I could, and tried to dispel the whole thing as but a passing nightmare. Again, as drowsiness was creeping over me,I felt the same shudder- chill, and heard the same faint whisper at my ear: Dont forget. Good-night. And at the same moment, almost, there was a shrill cock-crow outside. I hailed the herald of the morn with delight, as I was about weary of the night and its voices. The sun was shining high out of the rents in the storm clouds when I awoke again from tIme deep quiet sleep I fell into after daybreak. I thought myself a philosopher in those days, and easily found some common law of nature to account for anything that might come to pa.ss. So I need not say that I soon laughed away in the morning while dressing all the impression of my midnight experiences. At the breakfast- table my good friends greeted me with an inquiring look which seemed to say, Well? I need not say I made no allu- sion to the little event, and when asked if I had rested well, replied with the usual Thank you. During the morning, as I was making a sketch of the old sun-dial, Miss Lisle came out with Shami, and spreading a rug upon the turf, sat down near me, and, for her, looked and talked quite amiably. Was your Tulip any protection to you last night ? she said, suddenly, look- ing up at me from beneath her fell of tawny hair. I merely smiled a sickly kind of smile myself, and said, Tulip has not that inborn love of the supernatural that she might have. She never shone forth as a good ghost dog, if you mean that. At the time Miss Barbara was rather picturesquely prone on the rug, trying to overcome the rough playfulness of Shan. She seemed to have a wrist of iron. Pinning his two huge paws across WYVERN MOAT. 91 is breast, as she threw him suddenly over that I expected to meet the dear old lady ~n his hack, she muttered to him, half play- in who first told me of the Moat, hut there fully, half wickedly, Dont try your I found her all the same. I recalled to strength a~,ainst mine, or it will be the her our former meeting, and thanked her worse for you. You are not playing with for her introduction to Wyvern. a child. Shan lay with his great head Did you find what you expected ? she half averted from her, and with a resign- asked. ~d martyr sort of expression. Then she Indeed yes, and more. said suddenly, as she released his paws, She looked at me searchingly. Let Now you may go. Shan got up from us sit here in the conservatory, and do her vise-like clutch and shook himself for you tell me all ahout it. ~ moment, and then flopped down again To the dreamy music of a distant waltz as if exhausted. I was dumfounded for I told her my impressions of the place and ~ minute. I had heen trying to make the people, but held my tongue ahout my myself helieve that the nights impres- little night adventure. ~smons caine from mere imaginations, and Ah! so that was all, she said, with now I found myself trying to reconcile a little gasp of relief. this echo of last nights memories with the Now, said I, is it allowed to ask who theory of coincidences. I then went on that strange creature, a certain Miss Lisle, with my sketch, and tried to think no might have been ? more about it at all. That finished, how- Goodness knows when she came there ever, I did not linger long over the mnouldy or how; she seems to have been always ~harms of the Moat gardens: I soon bade there; she is beyond my ken. She once my hosts good-by, with many real thanks gave me the shudders by telling me of for their entertainment of me; and though poor old Crayes death. He took a fancy I was kindly pressed to return and sketch to sleep in a certain panelled room that he to my hearts content, I seemed for the had furnished with old oak and hung with moment to have lost my craving for moss- tapestry. He would tell them all about grown fountains and tapestried rooms. it in the morning, he said; but, poor man, Some time after, when the whole event when morning came he never told them seemed as faded and dim as the tapestries or any other soul on earth about any- Themselves, I found that my fate had been thing. He was found stark and dead in his good enough to try and round off the in- great carved oak bedstead, with his hands cident in the way that mere roman.ce does clutched tightly on his breast and the pil- such things more often than real life. I low across his face. found myself at a crowded dance in a cer- I was thankful just then that the dreamy tam house in London, the very last of all waltz music was still throbbing in the air. voL. LXXJI.No. 4277 THE WELL OF SAINT JOHN.* inHERE is plenty of room for two in here, I Within the steep tunnel of old gray stone; And the well is so dark, and the spring so clear, It is quite unsafe to go down alone. It is perfectly safe, depend upon it, For a girl who can count the steps, like me; And if ever I saw dear mothers bonnet, It is there on the hill by the old ash-tree. There is nobody but Rees Morgans cow Watching the dusk on the milk-white sea. Tis the time and the place for a life-long vow, Such as I owe you, and you owe me. Oh, Willie, how can I, in this dark well? I shall drop the brown pitcher,if you let go; The long roof is murmuring like a sea-shell, And the shadows are shuddering to and fro. Tis the sound of the ebb in Newton Bay. Quickens the spring as the tide grows less, Even as true love flows aiway Counter the flood of the worlds success. There is no other way for love to flow; Whenever it springs in a womans breast, To the home of its own heart it must go, And run contrary to all the rest. Then fill the sweet cup of your hand, my love, And pledge me your maiden faith thereon, By the touch of the lettered stone above, And the holy water of Saint John. Oh, what shall I say? My heart drops low; My fingers are cold, and my hand too flat. Is love to be measured by handfuls so? And you know that I love youwithout that. They stooped in the gleam of the faint light, over The print of themselves on the limpid gloom; And she lifted her full palm toward her lover, With her lips prepared for the words of doom. But the warm heart rose, and the cold hand fell, And the pledge of her faith sprang, sweet and clear, From a holier source than the old saints well, From the never-ebbing tide of lovea tear. R. D. BLACKMORE. * The old well of Saint John, in the parish of Newton-Nottage, Glamorganshire, has a tide of its own~ which is generally believed to run counter to that of the sea, some half-mile away. More careful obser- vation shows that the contrariety is less exact, though still sufficient to support its reputation, and gives zest to the cold pellucid draught. KEstus utrique est Continuo motu refinus, tamen ordine dispar.

THE WELL OF SAINT JOHN.* inHERE is plenty of room for two in here, I Within the steep tunnel of old gray stone; And the well is so dark, and the spring so clear, It is quite unsafe to go down alone. It is perfectly safe, depend upon it, For a girl who can count the steps, like me; And if ever I saw dear mothers bonnet, It is there on the hill by the old ash-tree. There is nobody but Rees Morgans cow Watching the dusk on the milk-white sea. Tis the time and the place for a life-long vow, Such as I owe you, and you owe me. Oh, Willie, how can I, in this dark well? I shall drop the brown pitcher,if you let go; The long roof is murmuring like a sea-shell, And the shadows are shuddering to and fro. Tis the sound of the ebb in Newton Bay. Quickens the spring as the tide grows less, Even as true love flows aiway Counter the flood of the worlds success. There is no other way for love to flow; Whenever it springs in a womans breast, To the home of its own heart it must go, And run contrary to all the rest. Then fill the sweet cup of your hand, my love, And pledge me your maiden faith thereon, By the touch of the lettered stone above, And the holy water of Saint John. Oh, what shall I say? My heart drops low; My fingers are cold, and my hand too flat. Is love to be measured by handfuls so? And you know that I love youwithout that. They stooped in the gleam of the faint light, over The print of themselves on the limpid gloom; And she lifted her full palm toward her lover, With her lips prepared for the words of doom. But the warm heart rose, and the cold hand fell, And the pledge of her faith sprang, sweet and clear, From a holier source than the old saints well, From the never-ebbing tide of lovea tear. R. D. BLACKMORE. * The old well of Saint John, in the parish of Newton-Nottage, Glamorganshire, has a tide of its own~ which is generally believed to run counter to that of the sea, some half-mile away. More careful obser- vation shows that the contrariety is less exact, though still sufficient to support its reputation, and gives zest to the cold pellucid draught. KEstus utrique est Continuo motu refinus, tamen ordine dispar. AND THE PLEDGE OF HER FAITH SPRANG SWEET AND CLEAR. THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. XTOW there ! said Ellen Jane Salt; LN Im tired seem a passel of folks squealin at a snail shell. It happened that much the same view of the case was occupying Miss Helen Rit- ter at the same niomen~ the chief differ- ence being that the summer boarders view was not dependent upon expression, while that of the native (as usual) was. It was what is called a buriiing fog that day. Miss Ritter was sitting on the cliff under a Japanese umbrella. Twenty peo- ple were sitting under Japanese umbrel- las. Hers, she thanked Heaven, was of ivory-color, plain and pale. No Turkey red flaunted fiercely nor purple manda- rin sprawled hysterically against indigo skies above her individual head. There is a comfort in distinction, even if it go no further than a paper sun-shade. Miss Ritter enjoyed the added idiosyncrasy of sitting under hers alone. She was often alone. In July the sea-side is agreeable; in September, irresistible; in October, intox- icating. In August, one does not under- stand it: one comes up suddenly against its other side, as against peculiarities in the character of a friend known for years, and unexpectedly putting the af- fection to a vital test. In August the sun goes out, and the thick weather comes in. The landlady is tired, and the waitress slams the plate; the fog-bell tolls, and the beach is sloppy; the fog-whistles screech, and one may not go a-sailing; the puddings and sauces have growii familiar, and one has read too many novels to stand another, and yet not enough to force one back, for lifes sake, on a course of solid reading. In Au- gust ones next neighbor is sure it was a mistake not to spend the season at the mountains. In August the babies on the same corridor are sick. In August one has discovered where the milk is kept, and frightful secrets of the drainage are gossiped in ghastly whispers by the guests, who complain of the dinners when the young married lady who rowed by moon- light with another fellow has left the place and a temporary deficiency of scan- dal. In August ones own particular beach is swarming and useless one s especial reef is populated and hideous, nay, ones s very crevice in the rock is dis- covered and mortgaged to the current flir tations, and all nature, which had seemed to be ones homestead, becomes ones ex- ile. In August there are hops, and one wants to go away. In August there are flies, and the new boarder. It is the new boarder who is overaudi- ble about the snail shells. Down there in the gorge, where the purple trap glit- ters at half-tide in. great volcanic veins that seeni to pulsate yet through the cliff with the fire imprisoned there who knows when ?and where the beaded brown kelp deepens to bronze, and then runs to tar- nished gold in the wet, rich, pulpy reced- ence of the ebb, the new boarder abound- eth. So the snailbrown, green, orange, lemon, gray, and whitethe tiny shells mere flecks of color, moved sluggishly by their cell of hidden consciousness and will, like certain larger lives that beneath a mask of stagnation palpitate. The snails, as I say, interest the new boarder. He saunters down in groups, in clans, in hordes, defiling through the trap gorge disproportionately feminine, sparsely but instructively masculine, and eternally in- fantile. He views the attractions of the spot first enthusiastically, then calmly, now indifferently, and drifts away at the third stage of feeling, possibly an object of curiosity or envy, in his turn, to the snail, who has to stay. The first day he screams (I must be pardoned if I use the generic masculine pronoun in this con- nection) at the snails; the second day he observes them without screaming; the third, he doesnt observe them at all. His number is infinite, and his place is never vacant. His lady types wear wild roses in their belts, imivariably succeeded by daisies, and rigorously followed by golden-rod. It is an endless procession of the Alike, or, we may say, of the gremtt North American Average. Decidedly on the fortunate side of the average is the element that is creeping into Fairharborone should say stepping in, for that end of averages never creeps, to be surethe element not vociferous over snails, and scantily given to flora]. decoration; an element represented, for instance, by Miss Hitter, who, seeking Fairharbor for many a summer because, among other reasons, it gave her that closest kind of seclusion, isolation in a crowd with which one has not historic so- cial relations, has sadly discovered of late

THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. XTOW there ! said Ellen Jane Salt; LN Im tired seem a passel of folks squealin at a snail shell. It happened that much the same view of the case was occupying Miss Helen Rit- ter at the same niomen~ the chief differ- ence being that the summer boarders view was not dependent upon expression, while that of the native (as usual) was. It was what is called a buriiing fog that day. Miss Ritter was sitting on the cliff under a Japanese umbrella. Twenty peo- ple were sitting under Japanese umbrel- las. Hers, she thanked Heaven, was of ivory-color, plain and pale. No Turkey red flaunted fiercely nor purple manda- rin sprawled hysterically against indigo skies above her individual head. There is a comfort in distinction, even if it go no further than a paper sun-shade. Miss Ritter enjoyed the added idiosyncrasy of sitting under hers alone. She was often alone. In July the sea-side is agreeable; in September, irresistible; in October, intox- icating. In August, one does not under- stand it: one comes up suddenly against its other side, as against peculiarities in the character of a friend known for years, and unexpectedly putting the af- fection to a vital test. In August the sun goes out, and the thick weather comes in. The landlady is tired, and the waitress slams the plate; the fog-bell tolls, and the beach is sloppy; the fog-whistles screech, and one may not go a-sailing; the puddings and sauces have growii familiar, and one has read too many novels to stand another, and yet not enough to force one back, for lifes sake, on a course of solid reading. In Au- gust ones next neighbor is sure it was a mistake not to spend the season at the mountains. In August the babies on the same corridor are sick. In August one has discovered where the milk is kept, and frightful secrets of the drainage are gossiped in ghastly whispers by the guests, who complain of the dinners when the young married lady who rowed by moon- light with another fellow has left the place and a temporary deficiency of scan- dal. In August ones own particular beach is swarming and useless one s especial reef is populated and hideous, nay, ones s very crevice in the rock is dis- covered and mortgaged to the current flir tations, and all nature, which had seemed to be ones homestead, becomes ones ex- ile. In August there are hops, and one wants to go away. In August there are flies, and the new boarder. It is the new boarder who is overaudi- ble about the snail shells. Down there in the gorge, where the purple trap glit- ters at half-tide in. great volcanic veins that seeni to pulsate yet through the cliff with the fire imprisoned there who knows when ?and where the beaded brown kelp deepens to bronze, and then runs to tar- nished gold in the wet, rich, pulpy reced- ence of the ebb, the new boarder abound- eth. So the snailbrown, green, orange, lemon, gray, and whitethe tiny shells mere flecks of color, moved sluggishly by their cell of hidden consciousness and will, like certain larger lives that beneath a mask of stagnation palpitate. The snails, as I say, interest the new boarder. He saunters down in groups, in clans, in hordes, defiling through the trap gorge disproportionately feminine, sparsely but instructively masculine, and eternally in- fantile. He views the attractions of the spot first enthusiastically, then calmly, now indifferently, and drifts away at the third stage of feeling, possibly an object of curiosity or envy, in his turn, to the snail, who has to stay. The first day he screams (I must be pardoned if I use the generic masculine pronoun in this con- nection) at the snails; the second day he observes them without screaming; the third, he doesnt observe them at all. His number is infinite, and his place is never vacant. His lady types wear wild roses in their belts, imivariably succeeded by daisies, and rigorously followed by golden-rod. It is an endless procession of the Alike, or, we may say, of the gremtt North American Average. Decidedly on the fortunate side of the average is the element that is creeping into Fairharborone should say stepping in, for that end of averages never creeps, to be surethe element not vociferous over snails, and scantily given to flora]. decoration; an element represented, for instance, by Miss Hitter, who, seeking Fairharbor for many a summer because, among other reasons, it gave her that closest kind of seclusion, isolation in a crowd with which one has not historic so- cial relations, has sadly discovered of late THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 95 that her dear, rough, plain rocks and waves and boarding-houses are becoming semi-fashionable, with a threat even of classically abandoning the compound. Already Fairharbor has her hotel and her daily steamer, her band and her distin- ~9~,jjIi 7 SHE HAD A STATELY WALK.~~ guished visitors, her mythical company, organized to sweep up the huge solitudes at five dollars a foot, roadway forty feet wide thrown in, and wells if you can find any water in them. Already she has her landaus and her toilets, her French maids and her ladies who protect the com- plexion. Already the faithful old stagers, haughtily unconscious, are stared at for their thick boots and beach dresses and gor- geous coats of tan, and their way of sitting in the sand like crabs after their vigorous baths, in which they do not junip up and down, but swim sturdily, battling with the sharp North shore waters, and not ex- pected to scream. Miss Ritter, a conspicuous figure on the cliffs edge above the lava gorge, might be called an unconscious link between Fair- harbor past and Fairharbor to be, possess- ing perhaps the better points in both types of summer people, luxuriously dissatisfied with them, with herself, with the world, even just now with Fairhar- bor. In her white flannel dress and white hat, with the pale flame-colored tie at her throat, and the reflection from the pale sun-shade upon her, she had a select, almost severe look, which was not less- ened by any depreciation of effect in motion when she rose and walked. She ~- - had a stately walk, and reminded one of a calla as she turned her head slowly and stood full to view, tall and serious. There was no sunset that night; it was a dog-day, damp and dead; the fog had thickened, and was crawling in like fate; the bell tolled from the light-house two miles away, and the east wind bore the sound steadily in. Already the boarder children, who insisted on going in the skiff, could not be seen an eighth of a mile out at the islands edge beyond the lava gorge; and the fisherman, whose children knew better, pushed them with a kiss from his knees as lie drew in his dory for the res- cue, to comfort a distracted parent (in a red parasol) and another one (rumored to be a clergyman, but just now in a bathing suit), whose inharmonious opinions but harmonious anxiety were the excitement of the hour upon the beach. The bath- ing suit had, unhappily for him, allowed the children to go. The red parasol bad always said they would be drowned. Dont ye fret, said the fisherman, with a slow grin. They stole my old punt, an she leaks so t 11 keep em busy baihin, and they cant get fur. Ill fetch em this time, but next time keep em to hum. Why, there aint a dog in Fairhar 4K ;~ 96 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. bord set out rowin thick as this, thout he hed to go for a doctor or see to his trawls; hed know better. But you land- lubbers never do know nothin; you dont know enough to know when to be skeer- ed.Hare ye, Miss Ritter ? as she passed him, suddenly gliding down the cliff, and up the wet, uncordial beach. Thats like you, Henry. Your tongue is bound to take the edge off your good deeds somehow, like plated silver, where- as you know, half the time, its the solid thing underneath. Now youll scour the ocean after those children, and do just as well as if you hadnt scolded about it. Better a sight better ! chuckled Henry. He ran splashing through the water over his huge red leather boots, pushing the dory off with a mighty shove. He moved the oars with a fishermans su- perb leisure; his massive figure looked as if it were etched for a moment on the mist, whose color and the color of his old oil - clothes blurred together till there seemed to be only the outline of a man. As boat and boatman grew dimmer to the view, the ghostly rower turned and shot back one parting word at the red parasol: Look a-here! Jest you stop yowlin, wont ye? Youll skeer them young uns overboard. Ef you want me to fetch em, lemme do it in peace. With this, the fog, with whose terrible and mysterious swiftijess no man may in- termeddle, shut down. Like the curtain of death, Miss Rit- ter thought, looking over her shoulder, when man and boat and voice had van- ished utterly. She was not given to too much consideration of the lot of her fel- low-men, perhaps; her sympathies were well regulated, but not acute. Although from Boston, she was not a philanthropist by avocation; she took people as they came, or wentgood-naturedly enough, but not uncomfortably; she had a touch of the irresponsibility belonging to pro- fessional artists; she herself did not even paint tea-cups. In Fairharbor, for instance, it would have been easy to make ones self miser- able. She meant to treat her neighbors as a lady should; but why cultivate neu- ralgia of the emotions over the fate of the fleets? It was therefore hardly charac- teristic, and struck her for the moment, in an artistic sense, curiously, as part of the effect of the whole wet, dull afternoon that she should feel almost moved by the every-day incident of Henry and the dory and the fog. He seemed to her suddenly like a symbol of the piteous Fairharbor life; as one puts an eagle, an arrow, a shield, or whatever, upon the seal of a commonwealth or upon coin, so Fairharbor might take Henry; so she gave up her vigorous young life that went down to the sea in ships; and so, ghosts before their time, her doomed men trod her shores. I believe I must stop and see Ellen Salt about some laces, said Miss iRitter, uncertainly, to the lady boarder, with daisies and a mandarin parasol, now pulpy with the fog, and offering acute tempta- tion to stick ones fingers between the ribs the lady who joined her on the beach. It did not matter about the laces, but it mattered to have to talk to that stack of daisies just then. The ladys leather belt was tight, and the flowers seemed to gasp as if they had got into corsets. This was the lady who always com- plained of the breakfasts, and knew how often every gentleman in the hotel came to see his wife. She was an idle, pretty, silly thing; abnormally, one might say inhumanly, luxurious. She wore thirty thousand dollars worth of diamonds, be- cause it was understood she was afraid to leave them in the hotel rooms. She gave three dollars to the subscription for the Fairharbor widows of two hundred men drowned last year: she had acquired a theory that one must not make paupers. As Helen Ritter struck off alone through the fog, down the lane, behind the wild- rose thicket, under the willow-trees, and against the big bowlders, to Mrs. Salts lit- tle, old, unpainted cottagepicturesquely gray, and proportionally dampshe was thinking neither of the daisy and dia- mond boarder nor of two hundred drowned fishermen, nor even of Ellen Jane and the weekly wash. So far as her thoughts had organization rather than pulp, and might have been nautically termed more conscious than jelly-fish, she was thinkingstill in that same am using, outside, artistic sense-of herself; looking on, as she looked on at the summer people and the fishermen, with an unimpassioned, critical eye. Too well we all know those mad or in- spired moments (generally ours on dull afternoons) when we seem to catch up the whole of life at a handful, and fling it from us utterly in a kind of scorn that THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 97 may be wholly noble or trivial, according to the impulse of the motion or the direc- tion of the aim. She, Helen Ritter, of Beacon Street, Boston, twenty-eight years old, an orphan, a Brahman (rich, if one stopped to think of that), and a beauty, member of Trinity Church and the Brain Club, subscriber to the Provident Association, and stockhold- er in the Athen~um, fond of her maid, her relatives, h~r bric-h-brac, and her way, walking to her wash-womans through the fog, and suffering one of these ~u- preme moments, could have flung her whole personality into Nirvana or the ocean by one sweep of her white-clad arm that day, and felt well rid of it. To be sure, nothing had happened. That, perhaps, was the trouble? I am a type, said the young woman aloud. I am nothing but a type; I have no use nor name nor fame under the skies, beyond standing for the representa- tive, like people that make the groups in tourists photographs. I may thank Hea- ven if I dont do it inartistically, I suppose; and meanwhile pay my laundress. I won- der why I keep on coming to Fairharbor ? Why, indeed? Helen Ritter to Helen Ritter, in the scorn of her heart and the depth of it, would give no answer to that question, but hit it with her fine, cool look as she would any other social intruder, and pass it by upon the other side. She was young, for life to have come to what she called its end. Yet the light of a whole life diez, When love is done, sang the musical boarder in the hotel parlor beyond the rose thicket. The east wind bore the sound over the bowlders, through the willow boughs, driving with the fog, as if both had been ghosts from the hidden sea. Why cling to the old spot where the light of life had once been kindled and quenched? Why dog, like a spirit unre- leased, the haunts of that blessed and ac- cursed vitality? No, no. She could not curse it: no. Whom or what had she to curse? Fate, perhaps, or accident, or a mans terrible dullness of intellect before the nature of the woman he loves, or her own doom, or her own waythat un- lucky way which as often wrought her mischief from being misunderstood as from being to blame, but which was none the less likely to be to blame for that. The mind has a thousand eyes, sang the summer boarder with laborious- ly accelerated emphasis, for the gentlemen had come in from the beach, and were list- ening, The mind has a thousand eyes, And the heart but one, Yet the light of a whole life dies, When love is done. Well, there ! said Ellen Jane Salt, do come in out of this thick weather. Fogs good for your flannel dress; bleach it out; but my! aint you sloppy? You got drabbled on the beach. Just you step up agen my tubs and let me wash out that hem o yourn jest as you be. lUll stand you up to the stove after, and dry you up a mite, too, and iron you off, and youll be slick as ever. Pity! I did you up only last Saturday, you know There! Im drove to death, but I cant stand seem good washin spoiled like thatand you, too, punctual as you are with the price so many dozen, and so late in the season besides. No; the laces wasnt extry, thank you. Id be ashamed if I couldnt do a bit of valingcens for you. But there! I was up till two oclock this mornin ironin Mrs. Hannibal P. Harrowstones fluted nigh- gownds (thread lace, every scrap). She had six. Im drove out of my wits, and Raf~ had to have one of his spells at three, poor little fellow! just as Id got a snooze in my close atop of the bed-spread, for it was so hot with the heavy ironin fire, and us so near the cook-stove. There ! Ellen Jane Salt was a little woman, thin and keen~ of outline; the kind of wo- man sure to marry a large man, and rule him roundly. She had very bright blue eyes, sunken with want of sleep; and the chiselling of care about her temples and her mouth told that her first youth had passed in hand-to-hand struggles with life, from which middle age gave no prospect of releasing her. The line between her lips indicated that nature had given her a sweet temper, which experience might push hard now and then under stress of circumstances. She had what it would be sufficient to call a busy voice, pitched like the American feminine voice of her class, but without a shrewish note; on the whole, making allowance for the nation- al key, what might be called a motherly or wifely voice. She had the curious, watching look common to the women of Fairharbor, acquired from that observa- tion of the sea with which the summer HENRY SALT SANG AS HE CARRIED THE OTHER BABY [SEE PAGE 102.] THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 99 boarder is unfamiliar. A little anxious running down to the beach now, or the wharf then, when the fog sets in; a little more restless climbing of the cliff when the wind rises; this peering for the dory before dawn, or searching for the sail at dusk, or scanning the headland by moon- light, or asking the dead of night to give the absent head-light to straining eyes, or beating about over the downs in the No- vembergales with the glass whichtrembles in the aching arm before the blank hori- zonthese things, we see, give optical re- suits which no social oculist has distinct- ly classified. For the rest, Ellen Jane Salt wore a navy blue calico dress, well fitted (by herself) to a pleasant figure, and tucked up over the hips under a gray crash washing apron, on which she wiped her steamed and dripping hands to give Miss Ritter greeting. There was a strip of tourists ruffling in the neck of the navy blue calico, and the house, like the mis- tress, was as neat as a honey-comb. One might almost say, without straining a point, that there was a certain poetry in her avocation; for Ellen Jane Salts old cottage seemed to the chance visitor a kind of temple of cleanliness. The small kitchen was sunny and sweet; and despite the disproportion of the ironing table and stove to the environment, the only litter seemed to be the signs of the presence of children, which abounded. Then it must be distinctly understood that Mrs. Salt had a parlor. What New-Englander has not? Whether his debts be paid or his soul saved we need not stop to inquire; he will attend to that presently; mean- while, a parlor or your life! In Mrs. Salts parlor was a carpet of a high-art pattern under reduced conditions olive green, tobe sure, playing at geome- try with Indian red, and sepia brown and ivory black; it was an excellent carpet, and protected by a strip of oil-cloth nailed across like a little plank walk for the chil- dren to travel over to the bedroom beyond. There was a new paper on the walls of the parlor, very clean and very gilt (olive green, of course), and the price per roll such a trifle that a cod-fish could afford it, as Mrs. Salt had often said; the paperer being Ellen Jane herself, at midnight, after a days washing, when he was asleep. In the parlor were a black hair-cloth sofa, a centre table with a red cloth, a Bible, a copy of a childrens paper, an VOL. LXXII.No. 4278 old Harper, and a patent-medicine alma- nac; a chromo called Innocence Asleep, (presented with a pound of green tea, and since framed in gilt), and a framed pho- tograph of Raf~ but when we come to Raf~ Meanwhile, in the parlor there was also an instrument. Mrs. Salt had privately meant it to be a piano; but Mr. Salt had a bad year liaddocking, and that overgrown ambition was silently set aside. Anyhow, it was an instrument. It did not matter whether one called it a melodeon or a cab- inet organ, or whatever; the musical fu- ture of the Salt family was thus assured. In a narrower persomial sense the instru- ment was intended for Emma Eliza, who took music lessons in prosperous seasons, and playedto Raf~. Emma Eliza was the oldest daughter, and Raf~ was the youngest son. Mrs. Salt had six children two babies. Raf~ was a cripple. Wasnt that Mrs. Hannibal P. Har- rowstone comm up the beach alongside of you ? began Mrs. Salt, promptly. She ironed as she talked, making small cere- mony of Miss Ritter, who was an old cus- tomer, and regarded quite as one of the family. Mrs. Salts irons thumped when she was tired or excited, though she would have you understand she knew how to iron scientifically and silently, and no fuss about it. To-night she thumped a good deal. Sh& s a good customer, Mrs. Hannibal P.Harrowstone. But there! When Icount the yards and yards on her petticoatsdol- lar a yard, every mite of itand her nigh- gownds solid [thumpi valingcens, you might say, and them dimons [thump], and beef-tea for Raf~ goes so fast at twen- ty-five cents a pound dunn his spells; and there! [thump]. Why, Miss Ritter, I did up one dress for that woman last week would ha paid our rent for a whole year, by the Sassinfras Bitters Almanac; and Biram so sharp on his rent, too, luck or none; an if a man makes eighty dollars to his trip or eight cents, its all the same to Biram come rent-day. But there! thats fishin. I aint complainin, and thanks to mercy I can stand at the wash-tub day an night for em longs theres anything to wash. Six weeks aint much, now, is it? Pretty short season; and no more for a woman to do in Fairharbor rest of the year than there is for a clam. Were like em, I guessjust stick in the mud and stay there. But there! I aint complain- 100 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. in either; and six children do want a sight of things from Janooary to Janooary, as youd know, if youd ever had one; and Raf& Raf~ looks pale, I thought, inter- posed Miss Ritter, glancing into the par- lor, where a little, bent figure sat in a high, padded chair by the window. The child had a delicate face, refined by suffering, and a singularly sweet mouth; lie had long blonde hair, which fell over his face as he stooped. There were no other children visible, except the baby, asleep in the crib or cradle at the little cripples feet. Now and then the boy jogged the cradle with his foot, as he bent over his work or play. Its your scrap-book, said Mrs. Salt, in a low voice- that one you gave him with the chromos and magazines when you come in June. You never see such a sight of comfort as that child gets out o them thingsbless your soul for it! Its the prettiness that pleases him. The boarders give him money sometimes, but lie dont pay the same attention to itit aint that, you know. Theres a kind of prettiness about Raf~like the ladies and gentlemen I do for. He aint like a fish- erman, Raf~ aint, and so sweet of his temper in all his spells. Now last night never a word. His father and me hate to see Raf~ suffer. I saw Henry on the beach just now, observed Miss Hitter, backing up by the stove, as she was bidden, to dry her white flannel dress hem after Mrs. Salt~s profes- sional treatment thereof. The young lady had quite dignity enough even for this awkward and exceedingly warm position, and seemed to fill the little house with a kind of splendordistant, uncomprehend- ing, accidentallike that gift of the scrap- book. She thought too little about them to know when she did the right thing by poor people, until they told her. She did not mistake her taste for her principles, though they sometimes might. I saw Henry, said Miss Ritter, in her affable tone, that the wash-woman did not always distinguish from personal friendship. He was going off in the dory after those Ben- zine children that always get lost foggy days. I thought he was pretty patient, though he had to have his say about it. All the children were with him, I believe Tom and Sue and the bigger baby and the rest. There aint any rest except Emma Eliza, corrected the mother. Six is enough, gracious knowsand shes gone home with Mrs. Hannibal P. harrow- stones wash, what there is ready of it. Yes, theres that about Henry Salt, I will say; hell do anything, but hes got to have his say. Him and me we have words sometimes. Im always sorry for it afterward. I never mean to. He says he dont mean to either. But there! men- folks is men-folks, not to say anything of women. Nigh as I can make out, the Lord made men-folks to be contrary; but sakes! if you love em, whats the odds? Youve only got a bigger chance to do for em, and mother em up. Theyre a kind of boys, men are, and have to be mother- ed up somehow by their women. They need pettin and fussin and strokin the right way, and hear je~t how they feel when they~re a mite sick, and fuss over em as if you sposed they was dangerous, and not to say nothin when youre ten times worse yourself thats men. I dont say I dont have my tempers out myself like an infiuenzy, got to conicsome- times. But there! Ive got a good hius- band, dear. Nor there aint a stiddier, nor soberer, nor better, goes to the Banks from Fairharbor year in, year out. Im very fond of Henry. Weve had a happy life, me and Henry. A happy life? Miss Hitter looked about the fisher- mans cottage; at the small rooms crowd- ed with the signs of surplus life and liar- assing economies; at the sober, sleeping baby, who seemed to have been born in a hard season, and bore the inheritance of poverty and anxiety in the lines of his unconscious face ; at the crippled boy stooping in the window against the dull square of light made by the conflict of the fog and dusk beyond; at the nervous mo- tions of the tired woman at the ironing table. Ellen Jane Salt did not pass for a heroine, but she had aches enough and ailments enough to have put Miss Ritter or Mrs. Hannibal P. Harrowstone under treatment from a fashionable physician for the rest of her life. Any lady who felt as she did would have gone to bed. The fishermans wife washed and ironed; thus Raf~ had beef-teaand the instru- ment. Somehow even the instrument did not make the fishermans cottage seem an abode of luxury. I can always sell it, Mrs. Salt said, when approached by good sociologists on the subject of this extrava THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 101 gance. Its good property; it keeps the children to home evenings; and Raf~ why, I got it for Raft. The wash-woman stood straight at her ironing table, and lifted her head as she followed Helen iRitters look about the cottage, on whose sparse comforts the ad- vancing dusk was setting heavily. Yes, she said, very gently, Henry and me have had a happy lifehim a fish- erman me a washer-womansix children and IRaf~and poor. Well there! theres been times poor dont say itand hard. Irs been pretty hard. But you see, my dear, me and Henry like each other. I suppose that makes a difference. It must make a difference, repeated Miss Ritter, drearily. She ~vent abruptly into the darkening parlor, kissed the crip- pled child upon the forehead, said some little pleasant thing to him, and came restlessly back. iRaf~ climbed down from his high chair laboriously, took up his crutch, and followed her. His mother was lighting the kerosene lamp, and the poor place leaped suddenly into color. Raf~ pulled at the navy blue calico dress. The wash-woman snatched off her wet crash apron, and drew the little fellow- alas! never perhaps to be too big a fellow for his mothers lapinto her arms. The ironing table and the clothes-basket and a wash-tub of rinsing clothes closed into the perspective of this plain picture; and Raf& s crutch, where it had fallen in the foreground, reminded Miss Hitter some- how of the staff in the little St. John scenes that we all know. The Madonnaof the Tubs, she mur- mured. What, m& am ? asked Raf~. There! there ! said the Madonna; go and watch for father, Haf~. She handed him his crutch with her kissa half-savage kiss, like that of some wild, thwarted ma- ternal thingand the child limped eager- ly away. He must have found them Beuzine children by this time, Mrs. Salt ran on, taking to her irons again nervously. But, fact is, Im never easy in my mind when Henrys in thick weather, not even oft- shore. Its hard being a woman in Fair- harbor. Our minister said, says he, when he first come to town he noticed all the women-folks called it the dreadful sea. I guess, come to think of it, we dojest as youd say Monday mornin or cold weather, and never take notice of your words. You see, Im kind o down to- night, tell the truth, Miss Ritter.Yes, Raf~, watch for papa, dear. Hell be dis- appointed if he doesnt see Raf~ firstI wouldnt tell the child just yet. You see, his fathers got to go to the Banks. Raf~ hates to have his father go to the Banks. He worries. We thought wed get along for me and Raf~ do worry sobut Hen- rys had an awful poor season off-shore. He thinks hes got to go. He aint made but twenty-two dollars and sixty-three cents this summer. Its safer off-shore, take it all, though its bad enough, Miss Hitter, fix it as you will. It was off-shore his boat keeled over, eight years ago the 23d of September, not moren two miles off the lighthim and Job Ely and Peter Salt and William X. Salt went down in a squall, and Id been nervous all day; so when it struck I got the glass, and took Emma Elizafor she was little then, but my oldest born, and all I had to speak to that would understand and me and Emma Ehiza we walked over the downs, and over the downs, blQwed about agen the wind, with the glass, and stood watch- in; and, my gracious God, Miss Hitter, I saw that there boat go down before my living eyes ! It was all old story, told to how many neighbors and summer people how many times! but at this point the fisher- man~s wife gasped and blanched. She had never been able to finish it; each time she thought she should. She took up her fiat-irons hastily, for scalding tears were dropping on Mrs. Hannibal P. Har- rowstones fluted skirt. He histed on to the keel, her bottom upmost, she said, in a lower voice, and they all histed on and held, and a lumber schooner from Maine come along full can- vas, but it took an eternal punishment, lookin through the glass, to get her swung to and dory off. But they was savedhim and Job Ely and Peter Salt and William X. Saltand him; but they looked like flies before my eyes, for the sea broke over em, and they kep a-slippin, and so me and Emma Eliza put down the glass and come home and set down; and Emma Eliza made me a cup of teafor I was that gone, and her so little to do for me. And there we set, for we couldnt do nothin till he come home at five minutes past nine oclock, bustin open the doorso drip- pin wet, and pale as his own corpse, and I says, Henry! Henry! and he says, Nel 102 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. ly Jane! and we says no more, for some- way we couldnt do it. But Emma Eliza criedfor she used to bellow, that child did, when she was littleenough to wake last years mackerel catch, and theii she made her fathers tea, for I was that gone; and, you see, Miss Ritter, it was next month Raf~ was born, and he was born, my dear as he is. Marm, I dont see my father, inter- rupted Raf~, in his gentle, drawling voice, from the open front door. And so, as I says, proceeded Mrs. Salt, more briskly, fishin is fishin, off-shore or no. But I havent no confidence in the Grand Banks. I wish my husband hadnt got to go this fall. I aint any time to be nervous, but theres always time to see things. You know, you see him so, before your eyes, all sorts of ways, when hes that far from youfogs, or a gale, or a squalldrown in mostly, and callin after you, if youre his wife and have always done for him. Even a head- ache hed run to you about. And to stand here ironin, a thousand miles away, and him maybe Marm, called Raf~, I see my fa- ther! I see my father ! Well, there ! cried Ellen Jane Salt, putting down her irons trefnendously. She blushed like a girl, and bustled about, picking up here and there, and hurry- ing to fry the cod for supper. She almost forgot her young lady customer, who was glad just then to slip away. On the way down the lane she met the fisherman and his children hurrying home; but in the dusk they passed with a pleasant, neighborly nod. Miss Ritter was sad, and Henry Salt was hungry; so she with her kindly Well, Henry ! and he with his civil Har yer, Miss Ritter ? went their ways. It so happened from one trifling cause and anothershe was called to Boston earlier than usual, and what notthat this was the last time she spoke to the good fellow that season, as she afterward remembered. She turned in the dark lane, and watch- ed the group scrambling home in their happy-go-lucky fashion--Henry rode the bigger baby (he was known in the Salt family as the other baby) pickback all the way; Sue and Tommy trudged and toddled, snatching at his oil-clothes, which were wet, and slipped from their little round red hands. Henry Salt sang, as he carried the oth er baby, a snatch of a sailors song Miss Ritter had never heard before- Give the wind time To blow the man down. Past the rose thicket, by the great bowl- der, dim in the dark and the now drench- ing fog, man and children, pushing merri- ly home, made one confused group, like a centaur or a torso to the watchers eye. The cottage door was wide open. What a splendor of light leaped out! Was it only that kerosene lamp upon the ironing table? How it beat back the crawling fog, which made as if it would enter first and was denied. Give the ~vind time rang the fishermans happy bass. From outside, through the door one could see clearly and far. All the little house seemed to lean out to draw them in; the sweet, tidy, homely things grew gilded and glorious, and had a look as if they stirred; even the instrument could be seen deep in the parlor, with the reduced high- art paper. In the doorway, once again, the Madonna of the Tubs had found that fine, unconscious attitudehalf stooping to take Paf~, who had stood too long upon his little crutch. He put up his hand and stroked her cheek. Oh, mann, Ive got my father! Give the wind time To blow the man down, sang Henry Salt. Laughing, he snatched and kissed the childtime mother too, per- haps. Down there in the dark wet lane Miss Ritter could not see, or her eyes fail- ed her somehow. For a moment the group stood in the open door in a kind of glory. Then Emma Eliza came in, and putting dowu her empty clothes - basket, and going straight to the instrument, beganit seem- ed that Raft askedto play. A waltz, perhaps? A minstrel melody? Some polka learned of the music teacher? A merry ditty flung at fate and dashed at life and death, between whose equal mys- teries these poor souls wrenched their brave and scanty happiness? My musical friendno. Emma Ehiza sang a hymn. She sang that venerable Sunday - school jingle known as Pull for the Shore. Raf~ joined in it sweetly, leaning on his crutch. His mother sang it shrilly while she fried the cod. Henry Salt sang THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 103 it merrily while he hung his oil-clothes on the nail behind the door. Sue and Tommy and the other baby sang it any- how; and the baby in the crib waked up and stretched his arms out to the instru- ment. Pull for the shore, sailor, pull for the shore! Heed not the rolling waves, but bend to the oar Pull for the shore, sailor, pull for the shore I Then the door shut suddenly; the Madon- na was blotted from sight; blackness re- placed the sweet and homely halo; only the voices of the fisher-people, expressing what they knew of happiness in the som- bre, sacred words that held the terror and the danger of the sea, echoed faintly down the dark and now deserted lane. If this were a story in need of a hero- ine, said Helen Hitter as she turned it is a vacant position which I should not be asked to fill. And yet Id be my wash- woman to be Give the wind time To blow for the shore, rang out the gruff bass voice that wind and weather had roughened in shouting Ship ahoy ! For Henry had musical- ly forgotten himself, as will be seen, and Emma Eliza, at the instrument, came to a severe halt to set him straight. Perhaps if it had not been for William X. Salt it would never have happened. Tennyson, I think, or it might well be, has sketched a sea-port town in one line which runs: And almost all the village had one name. The fishing town of Fairharbor was gen- erously furnished with the appropriate name of Salt. There were great Salts and small Salts, rich and poor Salts, drunk and sober Salts, Salts making money in the counting-rooms and Salts earning it upon the wharves, Salts in the fish firms and Salts before the mastAbraham L. Salt, for instance, who owned the schoon- er (herself Abby E. Salt by name), and William X. Salt and Peter Salt and Henry Salt, who sailed in her to the Grand Banks, after the golden-rod and the summer peo- ple were gone, when there were no Japa- nese umbrellas, and nobody screamed at the snails, when there was no washing by the dozen to be had, and only now and then a letter from Miss Hitteria November, just before Thanksgiving, when the wea ther had turned cold and the wind blew from the north. Nothing is easier than to find a reason for the unpleasant in ourselves in causes outside of ourselves, and yet, in spite of this calm, proverbial philosophy, it is probably true that if it had not been for William X. Salt it would never have hap- pened. At least Ellen Jane said so, and will say so to her dying day. For from what- ever causedivine, diabolic, or human whether because William X. Salt treated Henry, or because Henry allowed Will- iam X. to treat him, or because Heaven permitted or hell decreedthe truth re- mains that Henry and Ellen Jane Salt, like many another wedded pair loving less than they, like many another loving even more than they, quarrelled; but the worst of it was that they quarrelled the night that Henry set sail in the Abby E. Salt, with William X. and Peter and Job Ely and the other fellowsten in allfor the Grand Banks of Newfoundland. William X. Salt had given him the whiskey, for, as I say, it was turning cold, and the wind blew bitterly from the north, and the men had worked till they were fretted and chilled, getting their traps and trawls aboard. Now Henry was a sober man, for the most part, and meant to keep so; or his wife meant to keep him so, which is much the same thing; and I should libel him were I to say that he came home to supper drunk. He was not drunk. Strict- ly speaking, he was not sober. In point of fact, he was what may be charitably called sensitive to liquor, owing to some passing familiarity of the nervous system with its effects in early youth; and it took little enough to make it clear that lie had better have taken none at all. As a rule, Henry recognized this physiological fact. That November night he was cold and tired and down, and William X., who was sober sometimes, but so seldom that, by the law of chances, that could hardly have been one of the times, was moved to treat at the wrong moment or in the wrong way; and if Henry had taken a little lessor even a little more, and conme home to his wife drunk, it might not have happened, we must admit, for he was jolly and silly when he was drunk; but he got only so far as the cross stage, and cross he was it need not be deniedto Ellen Jane. What was it all about? What is it ever all about when two who love each other dearer than any great thing on earth, 104 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. fall sharp asunder because of some little onetoo little to find? The pity of love is that it is given to small creatures: let us not forget that itself is great. Perhaps it was the door that slammed; perhaps it was the coffee that did not set- tle; it may be that the baby cried, or the chowder burned their tongues, or some- body upset the milk pitcher, or the lamp smoked, or the ironing fire was burning coal too fast, or the barberry sauce (brought out to honor the occasion) had not enough molasses in it, or the griddle-cakes did not come fast enough, or there was a draught somewherewho could say? Neither of these married lovers, perhaps, after it was all over. Less than any one of these al- most invisible causes has broken hearts and homes before, and will, world without end, till lovers learn the infinite precious- ness of love, and human speech is guard- ed like human chastity. In short, then and there, on the night, on the hour of their separation, Henry and Ellen Jane Salt came to words. She had been crying all day, poor wo- man, because he had to go. She dreaded a November voyage intelligently and in- sanely. Raf~ had cried too, but he hid in the parlor to do it. The children were all sober except the baby and the other baby. The house was illuminatedthere were two kerosene lamps and the lantern. All Henrys mending was tearfully and exquisitely done. There had been fresh doughnuts fried, and a squash pie (ex- travagantly) made to please him. Emma Eliza, at the instrument, played the Sweet By-and-by. Her mother was dressed in her best calicoa new one never at the wash-tub, one of those chocolate patterns with strong-minded flowers that women fancy, Heaven and the designers know why. Her hair was brushed and her col- lar fresh, and she had looked as pretty as a pink, poor thing, dashing away the tears when he came inready for all the little feminine arts that make men cheerful at the cost of womens nerve and courage. Then it happenedwhatever it was and the glow went out of her face as the gloom gathered on his, and that sweet look about her mouth settled away, and the smouldering fire burned up slowly from a great depth in her sunken, tired blue eyes; and with a breaking heart she blamed him; and with a barbarous tongue he admired her; and their words ran as high as their nerves were strained; and because they loved each other dearly ev- ery harsh word they said scorched them like coals of white fire, on which one pours more to cover up the blaze; and be- cause they were man and wife, and more to each other than all the world besides, they said each to each, bitterly dashing out blind words, what neither would have said to friend or neighbor for very shames sake; and so it caine about that on this night they were in high temper, than which none had been really sharper, per- haps, in all their wedded lives. There is something always wrong about this house, curse it ! cried the man whom William X. Salt had treated. Theres nothing wrong in this house but him thats setting sail from it, cried the woman whom the man had scolded. They were flashing wordsup and out and overand, had it fared differently with them, at another time a sob and a kiss would have met above the ashes of the sorry scene, and there would have been an end, and peace to it. But the Abby E. Salt weighed anchor at eight oclock. It was quarter past sev- en when Henry pushed back from the half-eaten supper and took up his old hat to go. He had over a mile to walk, and a ferry to catch, and what not to do; he was already late. There was no time to let the sweet waters of repentance come to the flood. He bade the children good-by sullenly, kissed Raf~, and, after an in- stants hesitation, pushed open the door. He said he must hunt up Job Ely, and so saying, and saying no more than this, he went out of the house. He did not look at his wife. Her pretty, weary face had flushed a dangerous scarlet during the scene which had passed. Now it turned a dreadful white. She stood quite still. She seem- ed to have no more moral power to move after the man than an unsought girl or a woman repulsed. Her whole feminine nature was quivering pitifully. When a man is rough with a woman he forgets that he hurts two creaturesthe human and the womanand that he hurts the second more than it can hurt himself by just so much as the essence of the femi- nine nature is a fact superimposed upon the human. But as the mystery of this knowledge is one that princes and philos- ophers have not yet commanded, who should expect it of the fisherman Henry Salt? THE MADONNA 01? THE TUBS. 105 The children during this unhappy scene had stood silent. To their fathers quick- ness of temper they were used; he scolded one minute and kissed the next; but the usual had become the unexpected, and a kind of moral embarrassment filled the cottage. The baby and the other baby began to cry; Emma Eliza, whether from some rudimentary idea of calling her fa- thers attention, or from some daughterly delicacy which led her to get herself out of the way, sat down at the instrument and vigorously played Pull for the Shore on the wrong key; Raf~ got upon his crutch and hobbled to the door; the wife alone stood quite still. The wind was rising fiercely from the north, as has been said, and bursting in at the open door, caught it and clutched it to and fro, closing but not latching, and noisily playing with it, as if with a shaken mood that could not fix itself. For the instant, the master of the house seemed to be shut out, and seemed possibly to one outside to have been slammed out by hands within. Let me by, IRaf~ let me by this min- ute ! The wife made one bound, and down the wooden steps, where she stood bewildered. No one was to be seen. It was deadly dark, and the wind raved with a volume of sound which seemed to the Fairhiarbor woman, born and nourished of the blast, to be something intelligent and infernal pitted against her. She flung her shrill voice out into it: Henry! Hen- ry! come back and say good-by to me. Im sorry. Henry! Henry! Henry! Im sor- ry! Im sorry ! But only the awful throat of the gale made answer. She ran a little way, straining her ears, her eyes, her voice, beating her breast in a kind of frenzy, calling passionately, plaintively, then pas- sionately again; and so, despairing, for she made no headway against the roar of the November norxvester, staggered, turned, and stopped. At this moment, scrambling through the dark, a little figure hit her, hurrying by upon a little crutch. Im goin to catch my father, said Raf~. He pushed on beyond her, his bright hair blown straight like a helmet or visor of gold from his forehead, calling as he went, slipping, daring, tumbling on the sharp rocks, and up again. Down there in the dark midway of the road she saw a little fellow stop to gather strength and throw the whole force of his sweet young voice like a challenge to the gale: Fa-ther! marm s sorry! (Dont you cry, marm. I think hell answer.) Fa ther! father! marm says shes sorry! Marm is sorry, father! (Just keep still, marm. Im sure hell answer.) Fa- THER! MARM IS SORRY ! The crippled child hurled the whole of his little soul and body into that last cry, and then she saw him turn and limp, more slowly, back. He came up to her gently where she stood sobbing in the dark and wind; and as if he had been the parent, one might say, and she the child, he patted her upon the hand. I told you Id catch him, marmdear marm, added Raf~. She shook her head incredulously, con- vulsive with her tears, turning drearily to go back. She hardly noticed Raf~ in that minute. Time wife was older than the mo- ther in her; if stronger, who should say her nay? But I caught my father, persisted Raf~. He says. says he IRaf~, he couldnt, dear. Marm, he hollered, So be I. Did your father say that, honest, Raf~ I She lifted her head piteously, pleading- ly, before the child. I think lie did, said IRaf~, conscien- tiously. I says, Father, marm s sorry; and he says, So be I If he says, So be I, God bless you, Raf~! mothers sonny boy. But with that she began to sob afresh, half with hope and half with misery. The child, whose sympathies were made old and fine by suffering, watched her soberly. I think he did, said Raf~, stoutly. Ithink my father hollered, So be I. He lifted the truthful face of an angeb in a halo to the poor Madonna in the glim- mer of tIme open door. His yellow hair~ shone like an aureole about his ardent lit- - tle face. He would have given his scrap-~- book just then to say, I know he did. But Raf~ never lied. The other children. supposed it was because he was a cripple.. It was in just eleven days that. they brought her the news. Abraham L.. Salt. asked Biram to tell her, and Biram sent a woman neighbor. TIme northwester~ had~ blown grandly, as any one might know, straight for the Banks, and blown the 106 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Abby E. Salt thither in a smart voyage of men over whose fate a comfortable dry- four days and a half. After the steady shod world heaves a sigh once a year when blow the weather thickened, and that the winter gales blow so hard as to shake which has happened to Fairharbor fisher- the posts of the firm, warm house a little, men, and will happen again, God help or even to puff the lace above the sleeping them! till the way of the wind and wave babys crib in the curtained, fire-lit room. is tamed to human anguish, happened His wife, like other women, was a Fair- then and there to Henry Salt. The Zeph- harbor widow, and like other women must aniah Salt, a fine three-masted schooner, bend her to her fate. about returning from the fishing grounds, She bowed to it in those first weeks in carried the word to the telegraph at Boston, a stupefaction that resembled moral cata- and the telegraph to Abraham L. Salt, as lepsy. A reserve such as restrains the was said; he to Biram, Biram to the wo- hand that writes this pagea page like a man neighbor, the woman, praying Gods bridge over a chasm down which one can pity, to her, not look, yet over which one must cross She did not say it as she meant to. Who perforcesolemn]y enwrapped the fisher- of us does hard things as we thought we mans widow in that space between the should? She walked straight into the cot- night when the woman neighbor put the tage, and stood still in the middle of the crippled child into his mothers arms, and floor, and began to cry. The first she knew the advance of the holidays, which come she had caught the little crippled child and God help us !straiglit into the ruined put him into his mothers arms, and said, as once into the blessed homes. Raf~, tell your poor marm that your And so to Fairharbor as to Beacon fathers drowndedfor I can~t. Street, to Ellen Salt as to Helen Ritter, or you or me, the sacred time which en- At the Grand Banks, on the morning hances all happiness and all anguish of November, Henry Salt and Job Ely, came gently or cruelly, but surely, on; of Fairharbor, dory mates, set out from and it was the day before Christmas, and the schooner Abby Ii]. Salt to look aft- going to snow. er their trawls, and were lost in the fog. In the sad cottage behind the leafless Every effort was made in vain to find the rose thicket and under the ice-clad bowl- unfortunate men. No hope is any longer ders they were all at home early that aft- felt of their safety. The bodies have not ernoon: the mother from her dreary at- been recovered. Salt leaves a wife and tempt and failure to find another neigh- six children. Ely was unmarried. The bor to wash on Monday morning; Abby E. Salt belongs to the well-known Emma Ehiza from the net factory, where firm of Abraham L. Salt and Co., of Fair- she wove seines and hammocks (when harbor. the factory was running) at irregular wages, ranging from four dollars a week Miss Ritter, idly nibbling at her Daily to none; Tommy and Sue from the dis- Advertiser before her open cannel fire one trict school, where one must have an ed- bleak December morning, chanced upon ucation, evea if no father and no din- the paragraph, which she re-read and pon- ner. Raf~ took care of the baby and the dered long. Ellen Jane had sent no word other baby, and was, so to speak, profes- out of her misery, poor thing! A letter sionally at home. Besides, Raf~ himself achieved is an affliction to the unlearned, (indeed, I might say Raf~ in particular) and she had enough to bear without add- was about to become the support of the ing that. family. As luck would have itor as Id rather do a days washing any time God willed ita group of marine artists than write a letter, she used to say. Be- had discovered Fairharbor that year, and sides, after all, what would the boarder were wintering, by the mercies of Provi- lady care? When it came to the point dence and the landlady, in the closed ho- of bereavement, reinorse,widowhmood, hun- tel, hard at work; among them one, a ger, cold, and despair, the summer patron portrait and genre painter, guest of the seemed as far from the Fairhiarbor winter little company for a week or sc had seen as her paper parasol or her vahingcens. Raf~ at a window one day, and, presto! Henry Salt had gone the way of his call- the childs facea cherub strayed from ing, like other men; he had become one of paradise into misfortune, the fellows said the one or two hundred Fairharbor fisher- shall go to the exhibition. HE PUSHED ON BEYOND HER, CALLING AS HE WENT. From a drawing by W. T. Smedley. THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 109 Raf~ was earning what occurred to him as an enormous salary as a model by the hour; he failed to see why Sue had no rubbers or Tommy no coat, or why the kitchen fire burned so cold, or there was no meat for dinner, in view of his mon- etary receipts. He had often told his mother that he would support her, and begged her not to cry. It did not strike him that he had never seen her cry since his father died. As Christmas Eve drew on, they were all well in the house. Emma Eliza drew the curtains fast, for the hard and bitter air must melt into snow from very force of resistance to its fate, now any moment, and the house was cold. Ilaf~ asked her to leave one of the kitchen curtains np a little; lie had a fancy for looking out on dark nights; he used to stand so, some- times crooning and singing to himself, his bright hair pressed against the win- dow-pane, and his thin bands up against his temples. Before his father died, Raf~ sang Pull for the Shore a great deal, standing by that window looking out; sometimes Emma Eliza would catch it up upon the instrument and join. But he did not sing it any more. The outside door did not latchthe one that slammed poor Henry out on that last night; it never latched very well; there was no man to fix it now; a carpenter could not be afforded; the women and children had tinkered away at the fast- ening, in their blundering fashion, with blinding tears. Such are the cruel small ways in which the poor are reminded of their bereavements at every crevice of their lives. Raf~ had pushed up the wash- bench finally against the door to keep it in its place. Mrs. Salt looked about the little group, trying duteously to smile. She had on a (dyed) black dress; she looked sixty years old; she was what one might be tempted to call almost infernally changed; an in- describable expression had got hold of her face; she seemed like a dead person up and dressed. There was something no less than dreadful in the mechanical gen- tleness and reserve which had settled down upon this emotional, voluble crea- ture. No accident betrayed her into any acceleration of the voice ; the crossest baby never raised a ruffle in her accent; she had such a monotonous sweetness and bruised patience as seemed like a paraly- sis of common human nature. Her chil dren could not remember to have had even a rebuke from her since that night when the woman neighbor came in. They had deserved it twenty times. Children, she said, dully and gently, I havent any presents for you this Christmas. Its the first one, I guess. I cant help it, you know, my dears. We are very poor to-night. But Ill build you a big, hot fireits all I can do. Well keep Christmas Eve by keeping warm, if we can. The stove dont work, some- how; tIme lining needs fixing; it needs a man. She hesitated, looking pitifully about the room, at each little sober face. Wont that do? Wont that be better than no Christmas at all? I thought mebbe it would. Its all mothers got for you. She couldnt do any better. She wanted to. He always set so much by Christmas. He The broken door blew in and slammed against time wash - bench loudly. Raf~ went to shut it; but it resisted the little fellows strength fell inward heavily, and with it a hinge object thrust itself, or was thrust, along the floor noisily enough. Its the expressmnan ! cried Raf~. Its Tan and Salts express cart, for us, marm Now the Salt family had never had an express package in all their lives. So in- tense was the excitement for the moment that it was ahnost impossible to remem- ber that ones father was drowned. They gathered like bees about the box, which the driver lifted in for them compassion- ately; even stopping to help Emma Eliza start the cover. Seem yere only women -folksof a Christmas Eve. And never in my life did I see a woman could open a wooden box. Guess ye~d have to set on it all night if I didntand no man else to do for ye But Tan and Salts express checked him- self, and departed hastily from the loosen- ed cover and unfinished sentence, letting in a whirl of the now snow as he closed the rattling door. He wished, with all his soul, he had time to fix that latch. Now in that boxwhat mystery! what marvel! Emma Ehiza thought it was like a novel. IRaf~ had read fairy tales, and he considered it probable that it was the work of what he called a genii, that flannels and shoes, and a second- hand overcoat, and mittem~ms, and a black blanket shawl, should land on the floor, with flour and coffee and crackers, and a package of tea and sugar, and rubbers 110 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. for sue, and a turkey for Christmas din- ner, and under allstockings. Six pairs of stockings brown, red, blue, green, gray, and white, each one filled to the knee with Santa Claus knew whattrifles to the giver, ecstasy to the childall the way down from Emma Eliza to the baby, and the other baby. Ah, well, such things do happen, thank the blessed Christmas spirit, in the homes of the brave and self- helping poor; they do not perhaps often happen so gracefullywe might say so artistically. So pretty, cried Raft so pretty in her. For when the romance of the ex- pressman was followed by the immensity of a smart Fairharbor hack rolling under the leafless willows to the very door, and Raf~, pulling back the wash-bench again, let in, with a shower of bright snow, Miss Helen Ritter, standing tall and splendid in her furs of silver-seal, it seemed quite what was to be expected; and not one of the poor souls knew, which was the best of it, that the young lady had never done such a thing before in all her life. She had done it now in her own way that whimsical, obstinate, lavish way that sometimes was so wrong and sometimes so right, but this time so sweet and true. Was it her heart that told her how? For her head was painfully uneducated in so- ciology. She had not a particle of train- ing as a visitor to the poor. She had not a theory as to their elevation. She had never been interested in books concerning their management. She was simply ac- quainted with her wash-woman, and had approached her as she would any other acquaintance, according to the circum- stances of the case. It was a brave, self- helpful family; she knew them; not a drop of pauper blood rolled in the veins of their sturdy bodies. Ghastly poverty had got them; worse was before them; but if any desolate woman and her babes, thrust into their fate, could breast it and not go under, these were they. As a human being to human beings, Helen Ritter had come; she knew no more, nor thought beyond; she had felt moved to treat them as she would wish to be treated in their place, and she did as she was moved that was all. If she made no blunder, it was certainly owing to the rightness of her instinct, not to the wisdom of her views. But who stopped to think of views or instincts in the astounded cottage that Christmas Eve? Not Miss Ritter, stoop- ing, flushed and brilliant, drawn down by childrens fingers to her knees upon the kitchen floor among the Christmas litter. Not Raf~, who put up his pale face and kissed her, saying not a word. Not Emma Eliza, who meant to ask her to play a Christmas carol on the instru- ment, thinking that would be polite. (The instrument, by-the-way, was drearily seek- ing a purchaser, poor thing.) Not Sue, nor Tommy, nor the baby, nor the other baby, pulling off the veil which had shielded the feathers of their visitors dain- ty bonnet from the snow. Not Mrs. Salt, who came up to take her fur-lined cloak with a soft, Youll be too warm, my dear,~ and so showing all the stately, lux- urious outlines of the finest figure she had ever done up, in that sweet and hum- ble attitude, kneeling on the kitchen floor. Not Mrs. Salt, stealing away by herself, silent, still, and changed, and strange she had scarcely spoken. What ailed her? What would she? Where was she? Helen Ritter, unintroduced to inor- tal sorrow, hesitated before the bereave- ment of her wash-woman, but summoned heart at last and followed, slipping from the childrens arms. Ellen Jane Salt was in her chilly par- lor, crouched alone; she had got into a corner bent over something, and when Miss Ritter caine up she was half shock- ed to see that it was the black blanket shawl. I didn~t know what ever I was to do for mournin for him ! The woman look- ed up, breaking out thus sharply. Youve no idea how they talk about us Fairhar- bor widows, we so poor, they say, and tak- in charity to spend it on our blackand reason, maybe; but ask em if its human natur to break your heart and mourn your dead in colors. Ask em if bein poor puts out human natur. Miss Ritter, I hadnt nothin to mourn for Henry in but this one old dress I dyed before my money went to Biram for the rent, and my cloak was a tan-color season before last, and trimmed with bugle trimmin, and my shawl was a striped shawl, with red be- twixt, you know. And us without our coal in, me going mourn in for my hus- band half black, half colors, like a widow that was half glad and half sorryenough of em bemy dear, it hurt me. And to think you should think of that, and send me of a Christmas Eve Oh, my dear, I THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 111 havent cried before, but its the under- standin me that breaks me up. Oh, dont notice me, dont niiiid me. I havent cried since lie was drowned; I havent darst. Oh, dont you touch meoh yes, you may. How soft your arms are! Oh, nobody has held me since lie Oh, my God! my God! my God! Ive got to cry. Come here~ said Helen Ritter, sob- bing too come here and let me hold you, and tell me all about it. How can I tell you ? moaned the woman. Oh, it is such a dreadful thing to tell! Oh, my dear, it isnt his dying; it isnt that Henry is dead. If that was all, Id be a blessed womanme a widow, and them fatherless, and so poorId be a blessed woman; and God be thanked to mercy this living night if it was only that my husband had died! Oh, how should you know? You never was married; you never had a husband; you never quar- relled with the man you loved. Hush! hush! hush ! Involuntarily the lady thrust her hand upon the other womans mouth; then drew it off and patted her silently, stroking her hair and shoulders with exquisite loving motions, as women do to women of their own sort when sorrow is upon them. ~\\Te quarrelled, cried Ellen Jane Salt, throwing out her arms, arid letting them drop heavily at her side we quarrelled, Miss Hitter, that very last night, that very last minute, him and meus that loved each other, man and wife, for seven- teen years, and him going to his death from out that door. Oh, lie says, theres always something wrong about th ish ouse! aiid he cursed it; but lie didnt mean it, poor fellow; he never meant it; for they must have treated him to the wharves to make him say a thing like that--you know they must; and I says, Theres nothing wrong in this house but him thats setting sail from it. My God! my God! my God! I says those words to him at the very last; and he Marm, I told him you was sorry. Paf~ pulled her by the dyed black sleeve. The little fellows face worked pathetical ly. He did not know before that he could not bear it to see his mother cry. I think, I believe, Im pretty sure, said Haf~, that my father told me, So be I.,,, Helen Ritter drew the child into her free arm, and so held him, sick at heart, for in that supreme moment the widowed wife seemed to have gone deaf and blind; she did not notice even Raf~. Whats death, cried Ellen Jane, lift- ing her wan face to heaven, and sinking with a sickening, writhing motion to her knees whats death, if that was all, to man and wife that love each other? Ive been cold since Henry died, and Ive gone hungrydont let on to the children, for they dont knowand Id be cold and hungry; and if I was to starve, whats that? And if I mourned and cried for him, us partin kind, why, what is that? Ifs the words between us !oh, its the words between us! I dream em in my areams, I hear em in the wind, I hear em at the instrument when the children sing its the words between us! Him that courted me and wedded me, the babys fatherand we loved each other, and we come to words that last, last minute, him going to his death! My God! my God! my God! Miss Hitter, dear, what am I sayin? Send the children off. Crying, Raf~? Dont, dear. There! mothers sonny boy; come here. Dont, Haf~, dont. Yes, Ill come and see the Christmas stockings. Let me be a minute. Go, Miss Hitter, with em, if youll be so good. Kiss me, Raf~. Mothierll come presently, my son. Let me be a minute, wont you, by myself. They weiit and left her, as they were bidden, every one. Somebody shut the door of the chilly parlor, not quite to, and so shielded her in for a little, yet did not shut her off alone; they could not bear to. Helen Hitter gathered the children about her, among the presents and playthings, but it was hard. Christmas had gone out of the fatherless house. It was not easy for sorrow to play at Christmas Eve. Haf~ tried to entertain the lady. He told her he was going to support the family. He told her hoxv lie sat as model to the gentleman who painted up at the hotel, and Miss Hitter asked about the pictures, and a little about the painter, but not so much, and so they chatted quietly. Heady, mother ?, called Haf~, at the half-shut door. Presently, my son. Coming, mother I begged Emma Ehiza. Tumin, mummer ? called the other baby. In a minute, yes, my dears. Mother, Miss Hitter says shes found somebody to buy the instrument. Mother, 112 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Miss Ritter says she wants an instrument. She says shell give a hundred and twenty- five dollars for it. She says she wants an instrument very much. Coming, mo- ther ? Yes, my child. Just as she came out among them,quiet again, and gentle with her strange, dull gentleness, and stood so, a little apart from them, looking on, Raf~ got up and went to his window, where the curtain hung half drawn (half-mast, they called it), and looked out. It was snowing fiercely. The lights of the near hotel showed through the white drift. Emma Eliza would walk over with Miss Ritter when she had to go. Miss Ritter said she liked a little snow. How heavy was the calling of the sea! It was like the chords of a majestic, mighty organ built into the walls of the world. The children chattered about the artists, and pointed out their rooms yonder, specks of light in the dark hotel. Miss Ritter paid little attention to the artists. She was watching Mrs. Saltand Raf~. What ailed Raf~? The child had been standing with his face pressed against the window where the curtain hung at half-mast; his yellow hair falling forward looked like a little crown. As he stood he began to croon and hum below his breath. He hasnt sung that one before since father whispered Emma Eliza, but stopped, sobbing. Raf~ was humming Pull for the Shore. But what ailed Raf& He drew away from the window; the boy had turned quite pale; and yet it could not be said that his transparent, delicate face showed fear. He went up slowly to his mother, and pulled her black dress. Marm, I see my father. He pointed to the window, against which the storm pelted fast and furious. Ive frightened you, Raf~, said the mother, quietly. She had her great good sense. No one should allow her children to be afraid of their father as if he were a vulgar ghost. She patted Raf~, kissed him, and said, Raf~ mustnt say such things. Marm, persisted the boy, I saw my father. Its the snow, Raf~, you see; its so whitelike him. Raf~ must not talk like silly people. Dead folks cant be seen by little boys. There! Theres that old latch again, Raf~. How it acts! Go and fix it, dear. Like a child Raf~ obeyed, but like a spirit he pondered, for Raf~ had his dual life like the rest of us. Was it vulgar to see ghosts? Clearly it was necessary to push the wash - bench against the door; and though he looked like a spirit, he pushed like a boy. With his knee upon the bench, with his hand upon the latch But this was the moment when the childs shrill cry sounded and resounded through the house: Oh, marm, Ive got my father ! And, corpse or ghost or man, Henry Salt pushed in the door, hurled over the wash -bench, brushed aside Miss Ritter, strode over the children, and hearing, see- ing, knowing nothing else, if alive or dead, whether in earth or heaven, he took his wife, in her black dress, into his arms. For the most part, as we all know, such things are dreamed of. In Fairharbor they happen. The material of novelists and poets and playwrights, elsewhere woven of air or webbed of fancy to ap- pease the burning human desire for a good ending to a smart fiction, becomes in Fairharbor, now and then, by God~s in- genious will, the startling fact. The sea had given up her dead. One month reckoned of the solemn number, Henry Salt, like fishermen before him and fishermen, please God, to come after him, tossed by the vagaries of the sea and her toilers, had breasted his way to life and love. He was a man of sparse words, except when in liquor or in temper, and he took but few, slowly spoken, and with the feint of carelessness or stolidity used by men of his kind to mask the rare and so con- fusing emotions of a lifetime, to tell his short, true tale: We was lost in the fog and drove by the weather, and we was picked up six days to sea by a trader bound to Liver- pool. Thats all. Her name was the Rose of the Westderned silly name for a merchantman. She took me an kep me for my dory mate was frozen, and him she heaved overboardtill she hailed the Van Deusencock, of New York city, home- ward bound. And thats about all. The Van Deusencock she took me, and she got in at midnight, so I took the train to Bos- ton, for Id lost the boatshed a ben cheap- er. Have you got a piece of squash pie in the house? Im hungry. Im glad to get home. THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 113 The fisherman paused with a final air, and if left to himself it is doubtful if he would have added another word to his story from that day to this. Men of the sea are not so fond as traditionally be- hieved of detailing their thrilling escapes. They suffer too much, and it is coinforta- ble to forget. Wellyes, reluctantly, I said my dory mate was froze. I didnt say who he was. Ive no objections, as I know of; only I hate to think of him. Job Ely was my dory mate. Yes. We was together to see to our trawls, and we drifted off in the fogyou could a cut it with a dull bread-knife !and we couldnt find our way back to the Abby E. Salt; and thats all. I hate to think ont, because lie died first. There was a bite of ship-bread and wa- ter we had aboard the dory agin accident -I like to have somethingso they kep me. But it was almighty cold. Dont you remember the spell o weather come along about Thanksgiving? Well, Job Ely froze. He froze to death. So I had to do the rowin. But I kep him, for I reckoned his motherd like to hey the body. I thought Id make shore along some o them desarted beaches. So I kep him, but I covered his face, and I couldnt make shore, and it was God Amighty cold. I rowed for six days nigh to seven. I like to diedNelly Jane, dont take on so! Dont, my girl I Set in my lap awhilenever mind the children. Why, how you do shake and tremble! Why, look a-here! I DIDNT DO IT. Im a livin man. Eve got you in these here arms. Bless the girl! Emma Eliza, what ails your marm? Has she took on this way all this whilefor me ~ How peak~d she looks, and pale and saIlerkind o starved! There, Nelly Jane! Give me a mite o suthin for her, cant you ? She dooz look starved. Don~t want nothin but a kiss ~ Heres twenty of em! Who ever heard of a woman bein starved for kisses? Why, what a girl you be! Why, this is like courtinold married folk like us. Why, sho! I dont know but its wuth a mans dyin and comm to life to court his own widderthis way. Well, yes, I did get pretty cold. Fact is, I froze my hands froze em stiff. Fortnate they friz to the oars, so I kep a-rowin. Time agin I give out, and like to lay down alongside poor Job and give it up; but then they was friz to the oars, so I had to keep a-rowin. Curous thing, now. One night, that last night before I sighted the Rose of the West, I was nigh about gone. You cant think how sick I was o the sight o Jobhe looked so. But I couldnt bear to heave him over. Well, that nightI tell you the Sunday mornin truth-I heerd Raf~ singin and Emma Ehiza playin to him on the instru- ment, and I heerd Raf~ sing Pull for the shore, father. I heerd him plain as judgment, with the girl jinin in the chorus. But I heerd Raf~ quite plain and loud, Pull for the shore, Fatler, pull for the shore! Curous, wan~t it? Hou,d that hymn- tune know her chart, navigatin all them waters after me? Say? I heerd her. She neednt tell me. I heerd my little son sin gin to his fathermes good as a dead manand by the livin God I up an pulled! What did you say, Raf~? I don know. My hands was froze. Cant say what I can do for a hivin with em till Ive tried. Have to stay ashore, maybe. I haint got so far as that. I dont mind my hands, so~s Ive got my folks. What did I holler back the night I went away? I don knows I know. You mean the night me and your marm had words? I hadnt oughter had em. I thought ont a sight. I hoped shed for- get em. I kinder thought she would. So be ~ I dont remember sayin So be I. I misremember, Raf~. Guess it must a benyes, yessure enough. Sho! Yes, yes. I was a-calhin to poor Job him ahead of me, for I was lateI says, Job Ely! Job Ely!, says I. I never says I knew you say so, fa- ther. I says, I think, I believe he said, So be I. I wanted to say I knew you says so, father. Id oughter, Raf~. But Im afraid I didnt. Father,did you hear me say But Raf?~ stopped. He could not ask his fa- ther, Did you hear me say, Marm says shes sorry I The fine instinct of the fishermans child was equal to that emer- gency. Raf~ did not ask the question, and never will. Father, once again. Raf~ came up and leaned against the big wooden rock- ing-chair wherein the two sat courting the massive, puzzled, tender man, the 114 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. little woman, laughing and crying in her widows dress. Father, what did you think about when you thought youd be froze and drowndedall that time ? My son, said Henry Salt, after a long silence, which nobody, not even the baby, or the other baby, seemed to care or dare to break my son, I thought about your poor mother. I see that latch wants a screw, added the fisherman, in his leisure- ly, matter-of-fact voice. I guess Ill fix it after youve warmed the pie up, Ellen Jane. But Emma Eliza,whether from such ex- cess of earthly blessedness as to lead her to fear that ones heavenly prospects might be slighted, or whether from some vague sense of saying her prayers, or whether solely out of respect for the instrument, will never be known,danced madly to that melodious member of the family, and wail- ed out the general ecstasy in the lugubri- ous strains of The sweet By-and-by. But I never thought of its being you. Helen Ritter, confronted in the entry of the big empty summer hotel by that time- ly artist whose need of models had made Rafb the proud support of a fatherless family, dashed out these words too im- petuously to be recalled. You! and here again ! She was dazzling with snow and color. She would have drawn her- self to her full height splendidly, but his was higher. In that gloomy place, by the light of the lonely and smoky kerosene lamp swinging from the cold ceiling, it seemed indeed as if he outvied her in splendor. As she looked up, it was as if his mere physical presence would break her heart and grind it to powderit was so long since she had seen him. Their eyes clashed, retreated, advanced, united, and held gloriously. They defied each other, they adored each other, taunt- ed and blessed, challenged and yielded, blamed and forgave, wounded and wor- shipped, as only a few men and women may in all the world, and love the better for it. The story of years was told with- out a word; the secret of anguish was said in silence; the torrent of joy poured past dumb lips, and there by the winter sea, on a Christmas Eve, in the dismal hotel en- try, by the light of the smoky kerosene, two souls without speech or language met, perhaps for the first time in all their lives. I saw you through the window over there, he stammered, rapturously. Oh, I saw you holding the woman in your arms, and the child came up and kissed you. Why, I heard you sob. I was mean enough to listen. And I said, Why, shes a tender woman. She never could have meant She would forgive. We mis- understood each other somehow, Helen. For Loves sake give me the right to find out how. Oh said Helen Ritter, lifting her arms with a gentle and beautiful motion that might well have set a calmer man be- side himself, she told me I had never quarrelled with theman Iloved. When they moved to shut the hotel door for the snow was drifting inand so stood for a moment between the storm without and the shelter within, Raft and Emma Eliza at the instrument were singing shrilly, Give the ~vind time To blo~v the man home It seemed that Henry Salt had picked up another verse to this long-suffering song upon the voyage, for, past the bowl- ders, over the thickets, under the willows, through the snow, borne, not drowned, by the pinan of the organ of the sea, thus roundly on the gale his bass trolled forth: Give your life time To blow the heart home 1 I want to sing it too, said Helen Rit- ter. He to whom her lightest wish was dearest law drew her furs about her, and led her out into the storm; where, stand- ing hand in hand, unseen, unheard, they joined their voices to the fisher-peoples, and sang the wise, sweet words. -~--~ -~-~ - -~2~\ EAST ANGELS. CHAPTER XX. G ARDA THORNE went to Charleston. Maroaret gave her consent only after hesitation. But Dr. Kirby was from the first firmly in favor of the plan. He him- self would take his ward to the South Carolina city for Garda the Doctor would draw upon his thin purse, whether he were able to afford it or not; she should stay with his accomplished cousin Sally Lowndes. Thus she would have the best opportunity to see the cultivated and his- toric society of that dear little town. This last sentence was partly the Doc- tors and partly Winthrops; the Doctor had spoken thus reverentially of Charles- ton society, and Winthrop thus admiring- ly of Charleston itself, which had seemed to him, the first time he beheld it, the prettiest place on the Atlantic coast, a place of marked characteristics of its own, many of them highly picturesque; his use of the word little had been affectionate, not descriptive, He had found a charm in the old houses, gable end to the street; in the jealous walls and great gardens full of roses behind them; in St. Michaels spire; in the dusky library, full of grand- mannered old English authors in expen- sive old bindings; in the little Huguenot church; in the old manor-houses on the two rivers that come down one on each side, to form the beautiful harbor; in the rice fields; in the great lilies. The Battery at sunset, with Fort Moultrie on one hand, the silver beaches round Wagner and the green marsh where the great guns had been on the other, and Sumter on its islet in mid-streamthis was an unsurpassed lounging-place; there was nothing fairer. The Doctor had been much roused by the breaking of Gardas engagement. Garda had told him that Evert had not been to blame. But the Doctor was sure that he had been. He himself seemed also not to have been in fault. But he was none the less positive that, in some occult manner, he had been negligentcriminal- ly so. Mrs. Carew, the Moores, Madam Ruiz and the sefior, Madam Gironthey had all been asleep, and had let this worst of niodern innovations creep upon them unawares. For surely the foundations of society were shaken when the engagement of a young lady of Gardas position could be broken. And broken, Ma, as he repeated solemnly to his little mother more than once, without cause. Well, my son, would you rather have had it broken with cause ? asked Ma at last. The Doctor had had an interview with Winthrop. And he had been obliged to confess (still to Ma) that the Northerner had borne himself with courtesy and dig- nity, had given him nothing to take hold of; he had simply said, in a few words, that Garda had wished to be released, and that of course he had released her. The Doctor himself had fervently de- sired that she should be freed. But this made no difference in his astonishment that the thing could really be done, had already been brought about. Garda had wished it; he himself had wished it; and Winthrop had obeyed their wish. Never- theless, Reginald Kirby was a prey to a constant hidden rage. He was sure that somebody ought to be severely handled. And he earnestly hoped to have the plea- sure of carrying that duty into sharp effect for the benefit of somebody, some day. In the mean while it seemed a wise course to take Garda to other scenes; they had kept her too much to themselves. De Torrez came home before Gardas departure. He bade her good-by with his usual gravity. Then, three hours later, without mentioning his intention to any one, he started for Charleston himself, keeping punctiliously just that amount of time behind her all the way. This was one of his methods. On the present occasion the method caused him some discomfort, since, owing to the small num - her of boats and trains in that leisurely country, the originator of it found himself obliged to travel with the freight most of the way. A week later a letter came to Evert \Vinthrop. It was a letter which gave him a sharp surprise. It bore the postmark of the little post- office out in the St. Johns where he had sat in the rain, and was as folloxys: DEAR OLD LAD,I am hereon the river. Could you come over for a day? I am very anxious to see you. LANSING HAROLD. At the last intelligence, Lanse had been in Rome.

EAST ANGELS. CHAPTER XX. G ARDA THORNE went to Charleston. Maroaret gave her consent only after hesitation. But Dr. Kirby was from the first firmly in favor of the plan. He him- self would take his ward to the South Carolina city for Garda the Doctor would draw upon his thin purse, whether he were able to afford it or not; she should stay with his accomplished cousin Sally Lowndes. Thus she would have the best opportunity to see the cultivated and his- toric society of that dear little town. This last sentence was partly the Doc- tors and partly Winthrops; the Doctor had spoken thus reverentially of Charles- ton society, and Winthrop thus admiring- ly of Charleston itself, which had seemed to him, the first time he beheld it, the prettiest place on the Atlantic coast, a place of marked characteristics of its own, many of them highly picturesque; his use of the word little had been affectionate, not descriptive, He had found a charm in the old houses, gable end to the street; in the jealous walls and great gardens full of roses behind them; in St. Michaels spire; in the dusky library, full of grand- mannered old English authors in expen- sive old bindings; in the little Huguenot church; in the old manor-houses on the two rivers that come down one on each side, to form the beautiful harbor; in the rice fields; in the great lilies. The Battery at sunset, with Fort Moultrie on one hand, the silver beaches round Wagner and the green marsh where the great guns had been on the other, and Sumter on its islet in mid-streamthis was an unsurpassed lounging-place; there was nothing fairer. The Doctor had been much roused by the breaking of Gardas engagement. Garda had told him that Evert had not been to blame. But the Doctor was sure that he had been. He himself seemed also not to have been in fault. But he was none the less positive that, in some occult manner, he had been negligentcriminal- ly so. Mrs. Carew, the Moores, Madam Ruiz and the sefior, Madam Gironthey had all been asleep, and had let this worst of niodern innovations creep upon them unawares. For surely the foundations of society were shaken when the engagement of a young lady of Gardas position could be broken. And broken, Ma, as he repeated solemnly to his little mother more than once, without cause. Well, my son, would you rather have had it broken with cause ? asked Ma at last. The Doctor had had an interview with Winthrop. And he had been obliged to confess (still to Ma) that the Northerner had borne himself with courtesy and dig- nity, had given him nothing to take hold of; he had simply said, in a few words, that Garda had wished to be released, and that of course he had released her. The Doctor himself had fervently de- sired that she should be freed. But this made no difference in his astonishment that the thing could really be done, had already been brought about. Garda had wished it; he himself had wished it; and Winthrop had obeyed their wish. Never- theless, Reginald Kirby was a prey to a constant hidden rage. He was sure that somebody ought to be severely handled. And he earnestly hoped to have the plea- sure of carrying that duty into sharp effect for the benefit of somebody, some day. In the mean while it seemed a wise course to take Garda to other scenes; they had kept her too much to themselves. De Torrez came home before Gardas departure. He bade her good-by with his usual gravity. Then, three hours later, without mentioning his intention to any one, he started for Charleston himself, keeping punctiliously just that amount of time behind her all the way. This was one of his methods. On the present occasion the method caused him some discomfort, since, owing to the small num - her of boats and trains in that leisurely country, the originator of it found himself obliged to travel with the freight most of the way. A week later a letter came to Evert \Vinthrop. It was a letter which gave him a sharp surprise. It bore the postmark of the little post- office out in the St. Johns where he had sat in the rain, and was as folloxys: DEAR OLD LAD,I am hereon the river. Could you come over for a day? I am very anxious to see you. LANSING HAROLD. At the last intelligence, Lanse had been in Rome. 116 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. There was a scrawled postscript: Say nothing to any one. I write only to you. Winthrops relations with Margaret since they had parted, on the day of his re- turn, at the drawing-room door, had been of the scantiest; appearances had been kept up, but, save where appearances had had to be consulted, they had scarcely ex- changed a word. She avoided him. He said to himself that she had turned into ice. But this was not a truthful compari- son, for ice does not look troubled, and Margaret looked both troubled and ex- hausted. When he was present she was impassive; but the blue shadows beneath the dark under-lashes of her eyes, the drawn expression round her mouth, yes, and her very impassiveness, showed; but what did they show? He could think of no solution that satisfied him any more than lie could think of a solution for the mystery of her apparent desire that he should continue to believe of her that which was much against her, and which was not true. And now, to make things more compli- cated, Lanse had dropped down upon them from Rome. Winthrop made a pretext of another hunting expedition, drove over to the river, and embarked again upon the slow old Hernando, which brought him in due course to the long pier. Here, sitting in the United States chair, was Harold. It was a long time since Winthrop had seen Lanse. He thought him much alter- ed. His figure had grown larger; though he was still but forty-one, none of the out- lines of youth were left; there was only, at least as he sat there, an impression of bulk. His thick dark hair was mixed with gray, as also his short beard; and the beard could not conceal the increased breadth of the lower part of the face, the slight lap-over of the cheeks above the collar. His dark eyes, with the yellow lights in them, were dull; his well-cut mouth was a little open, giving him a blank expression, as though he were half asleep. But when this expression changed, as it did when the silent postmaster suggest- ed by a wave of his hand that his guest should move the government chair a lit- tle,. in order not to be in the way of the passengers who might land, the alteration was so complete, though not a feature stirred, that Winthrop laughed. Lanse serenely stared at the coon-skin-hatted man as though he did not exist; his gaze restored perfectly, for himself at least, the space of light and air which that public servant was mistakenly filling. All this Winthrop witnessed from the deck as the Hernando was slowly swing- ing her broad careening side toward the pier. Lanse had not recognized his figure among the motley crowd of voyagers col- lected at the railing. It was not until the ropes had been made fast by the post- master (who was also wharf-master, show- ing much activity in that avocation) and the plank put out that the lessening crowd brought Winthrops figure more into re- lief. He waved his hand again to Lanse. And then Lanse. springing up, respond- ed. And all the old look came back. The dullness vanished, the heaviness became subordinate to the brightening eyes and the smile. He xvaved his hand in return. And Evert going down, they met with gladness. Lance seemed delighted to see him, and Winthrop had never forgotten his old affection for the big, good-natured, handsome cousin of his boyhood days. The pier was soon left to them; every one else departed; and the two men, stroll- ing up and down, talked together. At length Lanse said: Well, Im glad Margarets as you describe (but Winthrop had not described hiei~), for I might as well tell you at once what Im down here forI want her to come back. Come back ? Yes ; I have her promise to come but women are so insufferably change- able. She isnt. Isnt she? So much the better for me, then; for she knew the worst of me when she made that promise; and if by a miracle she has remained in the same frame of mind, my road will be easy. I dont mean to push myself into your confidence, Lanse, said Winthrop, after a moments silence, but I think I will say here that I have always as strongly as possible disapproved of her course in leaving you. He made himself say this. It was true, and say it he would. Lanse laughed, and turned down the brim of his soft hat to keep the sun from his eyes. Im not going to lie about it, he answered. I would have told you at any time if you had asked me. She couldnt help heaving me. Winthrop looked at him. EAST ANGELS. 117 Its a funny world, Lanse continued. If she hadnt been such a good woman, very likely she would have staid on in spite ofin spite of everything. And then people would have called her a de- voted wife, and praised her, and all that sort of stuff, as I dare say nowat least according to youthey abuse her. Come along up and get sometbing to eat; then well go off in the canoe, and Ill tell you the whole story: youve got to hear it if youre to help. An hour later the two men were float- ing away from the long pier in a small boat built upon the perfect model of the Indians birch-bark canoe. Lanse, an ex- pert in this as in almost all kinds of out- door exercise, wielded the paddle with ease, while Winthrop faced him, reclining in the bottom of the boat; it could only hold two. Lightly it sped out toward deep water; the slightest motion sent it forward; and its sides xvere of such slender thickness that the two men could feel the breathing of the great soft stream, which had here a breadth of three miles, though in sight, both above and below, it widen- ed into six. These broad water stretches were never rough; neither were they still, like a lagoon. From shore to shore the slow, full current swept majestically on, and even to look across the wide, tranquil reaches, with the tropical forests standing thickly on their low strands, was a vision of peace for the most troubled human soul. The clear brown of the tide had to-day a line of froth, like amber soap-suds, edg- ing the western strand; this said that the wind came from the sea. On other days, when it came from the Gulf, the creamy foam changed its place, surging softly against the eastern shore. Kildee plover flew chattering before the canoe while they were still near land. Far above in the blue a bald-headed eagle sailed along. Lanse chose to go out to the centre of the streamLanse never skirted the edge of anything; reaching it, he turned south- ward, and they voyaged onward for near- ly an hour. He did not appear disposed to begin his narrative immediately, and Winthrop asked no questions. Every ~ow and then each indulged in a retrospective remark; but these remarks concerned themselves only with the days of their boyhood; they called up the old jokes, and called each other by the old names. Winthrop, after VOL. LXxII.No. 42 9 a while, branching off, suggested that this warm brown tide, winding softly through the beautiful low green country, was some- thing to rememberon a January day, say, in a manufacturing town at the North, when a raw wind was sweeping the streets, when the horse-cars were bumping along between miniature hills of muddy ice, when all complexions were harassed, and the constantly dropping flakes of soot from myriad chimneys failed to convey any suggestion of warmth, but rather brought up (to the initiated) a picture of chill half - heated bedrooms, where these same harassed complexions must undergo more torture from soap and water in the effort to remove the close-clinging marks of the black snow. Oh, confound your manufacturing town ! Lanse answered. I cant; Im a manufacturer myself, was Winthrops response. At length Lanse turned the canoe to- ward the western shore. A creek emp- tied into the river at this pointa creek which had about the breadth of the Thames at Westminsterand Lanse entered the creek. The great ragged nests of the fish- hawks crowned many of the trees here, making them resemble a group of light- houses at the creeks mouth. On the broad beds of the lily-pads as they floated by they saw every now and then, at some distance from them on the warm green, a rattlesnake, asleep or meditating. They met an old negro on a raft, who held up one which he seemed to think they would admire. Fibe foot en eight inch, boss, en ferteen rattles. Thats African Joe, said Lanse. Ive already made his acquaintance; he was born in Africa. You old murderer, what do you want for showing us that poor reptile you have put an end to ? Old Joe, a marvel of negro old age, grinned as Lanse tossed him a quarter. There ought to be a society here for the prevention of cruelty to animals, Lanse said as he did it. For the snake or the darky ? inquired Winthrop. They passed a dark lump or two, like the end of a floating log. And these were alligators, submerged all but that inch of head. Then they came to the region of the Spanish moss,where every tree held mass- es of the long silvery mist-like webs pend- cut from its green branches to the ground. 118 HARPER$ NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. When the trees were largeand most of them were very largethe effect was like enchantment, as though a whole forest had been robed in pearl-gray lace. Great white herons flew slowly across the stream before them,and now and then they caught a glimpse of something like a little frag- ment of rosy cloud far within the silvery aisles; this was the pink curlew. Thats the place Im looking for, I think, said Lanse; I was up here yes- terday for a few moments. And with two or three strong strokes of the paddle he sent the canoe round a cape of lily-pads, into the mouth of a smaller stream, which here came, almost unobserved, into the larger one. It was a stream narrow but deep, which took them into the silver forest. Here they floated over reflections so perfect of the trees and moss on shore that it was hard to tell where reality ended and the picture began. But the picture, if it was a picture, was like scenery set up for the great turtles that swam along down below, for the wa- ter-moccasins that slipped noiselessly into the same amber depths from the roots of the trees as the canoe drew near, and for the alligators too,which now began to show themselves more freely; the boat floated noiselessly over one huge fellow fifteen feet long. Lanse was aroused. I tell you, old lad, this isnt bad, he said. I dont care about it, Winthrop an- swered; its sensational. Over this remark Lanse indulged in a retrospective grin. Old ! he said. Youve been getting that off ever since you were twenty. Who was it that called Niagara violent? The joke is that, at heart, you yourself are the most violent creature I know. Ohtalk about hearts ! said Win- throp. The trees now becran to meet overhead; when their branches interlaced so that the shade was complete, Lanse tied the boat- rope to a bough, stretched himself out in his end of the boat, lit a cigarette, and looked at his companion. Now for the story, he said. I tell you because I want your help; I am sure that 1\~argaret has the highest opinion of you. She has none at all. She detests me. No ! said Lanse, using the word as an exclamation. How comes that? You must have been very nasty to her ? I have always been against her about you. Has Aunt Katrina been nasty too ? She has given her a home, at any rate. And a very pretty one it must have been, if she has looked, while about it, as you look now, Lanse commented. Never mind my looks. I dont know that your own are any better. What have you to say ? One thing more, first. How much has Margaret told ? Nothing. That is, nothing to me. I meant Aunt K. How should I know? said Winthrop, shortly. Then he made himself speak with more truth. Aunt Katrina com- plains that Margaret has never said a word. Yet youve all been disapproving of her all this time! Now I call that a spe- cimen of the fixed injustice so common among nice people, said Lanse, musing ly. He was sorry for the nice people. Before you criticise, let us see how well you have behaved, suggested his companion. Oh, I dont pretend to be a well-rega- lated character. Let me seeI shall have to go back to the beginning to make you understand. I dont know whether you know how Margaret was brought up? She had always lived in the countrynot a village; the old Cruger place was three miles from everything; there she lived with her grandmother and her grandmo- thers friends, not a young person among them. She hadnt even been to school always a governess at home. She was only seventeen when I first saw her. We were there in the house togetherAunt Katrinas, on the soundand I was at the tinme more cut up than I had ever been in my life before. I had just come back from abroad, as you know; and the reason I had come back, which you dont know, was because some one (never mind who not an American) had gone off and mar- ried under my nose a man with a million several of them if you count in French. As I had expected to marry her myself, you may imagine whether I enjoyed it. Feeling pretty well cut up, smarting sharp- ly, if I must confess it, it seemed to me, after a while, that it wouldnt be a bad idea to marry Margaret Cruger. I couldnt feel worse than I did, and maybe I might feel betterand she was very sweet in her EAST ANGELS. 119 way. I dont pretend that I was ever in love with her, but I liked her from the first. I have always had a fancy for young girls, pursued Lanse, taking off his hat and putting it behind his head as a pillow: when theyre not forward (American girls are apt to be forward, though without in the least knowing it), theyre enchanting. The trouble is that they cant stay young forever; they dont know anything, and of course they have to learn, and that process is tiresome. It would be paradise if a girl of seventeen could sit down like a woman of thirty; and paradise isnt intended, I suppose, to come just yet. Dont talk your French to me, said Winthrop. 1 dont admire it. Thats another of your shams. Yes, you do. But its perfectly true that a young girl can no more sit down with grace than she can listen with grace Yes; you want to talk. On the contrary, I dont want to; I want to be silent. But I want them to know how to listen to my silence. I wont go into the details. She was so young-Mar- garetthat I easily made her believe that I couldnt live without her, that I should go to the bad direct unless she would take charge of mea thing that is apt to suc- ceed with young girls when theyre con- scientious (as Margaret was), unless they happen to care for some one else. Mar- garet didnt care for any one else, and so she was caught. We were married. And I give you my word I fully intended to treat her as well as I knew how. But ill luck got mixed with it. Here Lanse changed his position again, and clasping his hands under his head, gazed up at the dense green above. Lets hope a moccasin wont take a walk out on one of those branches and fall down. Nobody ever dreamed, of course, that a man with a million and the wife he want- ed was going to take himself off the face of the earth and leave both behind him. Yet that is exactly what that man did. Within a year after his marriage and six months after mine lie was drownedac- cident while bathing. Naturally I thought ofof the one who was left. But that was all I didthink; all I did then, at least. She, however, did more; she wrote. Nice sort of person. Precisely. But I cared more about her than I did about any one in the world, and that makes a difference. It obscures your judgment, dont you know, Lanse went on, in a reflective tone. I thought she wrote to me because she couldnt help itin short, because she cared so much for me: and thats taking. And now heres where the ill luck took a hand. Did I intend to let any of this in the least touch Margaretinterfere with her? As far as possible from it. My intention was that she should never know or dream of it. It was all to be kept religiously from her. Why, I wouldnt have had her know it for anything, first on her own account, then on mine. The wife of Lansing Har- old, went on Lanse, smiling a little at himself, yet evidently meaning exactly what he said, must be above suspicion, by which I intend the verb, not the noun. Up to thirty, at least, she must be too in- nocent to suspect. But what do you sup- pose came next? By the most extraordi- nary chance in the world Margaret her- self got hold of one of my letters toto the other person. She came upon the loose sheets by accident, and thought it was something that I must have been writing some time to her. She never im- agined that it was to any one else, or she wouldnt have read it: she was punctil- iousness itself in such matters. But her eyes happened to fall first upon the mid- dle sheet, where there was no name, and the the language, as she afterward ex- pressed it, made her believe that it was addressed to herself. A man could only write in that way to his wife, she sup- posed. But at the end she was unde- ceived. for there she found the other name. Of course we had a scene when I came home. I was horribly annoyed by what had happened. But I did my best to be nice to her. I told her that it was a mis- erable accident in every way, her corning upon that letter; that I could never for- give myself for having left it where I did. I told her that I could perfectly under- stand that it had been a great shock to hera shock that I was more sorry for than she could possibly be. But as it had happened, we must both be reasonable and make th~ best of it; and her best was simply to forget all about it as soon as she could. It was wonderful how much one could forget if one tried. I could assure her that nothing should ever touch her position as my wife; there should be no breath upon that. Always I should give her in the eyes of all the world the first honor, the first place. You 120 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. see, it was the best I could do. I couldnt deny the letter; it was in my own hand- writing; it even had a date. And it wasnt a letter, either, that you could explain away. But I couldnt do anything with her. I dont mean that she argued or combated; she seemed all broken to pieces. She sat there looking at me with a sort of wonder and horror combined. Before night she was ill-a fever. She was ill three weeks. And I was as nice to her all that time as I possibly could be; I brought her lovely flowers every day. As she grew better I hoped we were go- ing to go on in peacecertainly the last thing I wanted was a quarrel with her. Butwomen are bound to be fools! No sooner was she able to sit up than she took the first chance to ask me (there had been a nurse about before) whether I had not already abandoned that dreadful af- fair. I suppose I could have lied to her; if I was going to do it, that was the time. But, as it happens, I dont lie; it has never been one of my accomplishments. So I told her that she ought to treat such things as a lady should; that is, not descend to them. And I told her furthermore that she ought to treat this one as my wife should. When I said that, I remember she looked at me as if she were in a sort of stupor. You see, to her sense, she was treating it as my wife should, comment- ed Lanse, telling his own story, as he felt himself, with much impersonal fairness. All this time, of course, I had had to postpone everything. She continued to improve, and I took the ground of saying nothing. When another month had pass- ed, and she was perfectly well again, I mentioned one day carelessly, before some one else, that I thought I should try a lit- tle summer trip of thirty days or so across the ocean and back; I shouldnt take her, because she wasnt as fond of the sea as I was, and twenty of the thirty days would be spent afloat: she would be much more comfortable at homewe had taken a pret- ty house at New Rochelle for the year. She didnt make any especial comment then; but as soon as she could get me alone I saw that it had all been of no use my patience and my waiting: she was determined to talk. Her point was that I must not go. I am not very yielding, as you know. But she was even more obstinate than I was. It was owing to the ideas she had about some things; she wasnt a Roman Catholic, but she thought marriage a sacramentalmost. I got in a few words on that side myself: I told her that she seemed to have a singular idea of a wifes duties. One of them was generally supposed to be to guard her hus- bands name, which was also her own~ but that while I wished to occasion no talk, no scandal, she was doing her very best to stir up both by having an open quarrel with me. And then I asked her what she proposed to do? I suppose I looked ugly. She got up and stood there, trembling a little, and holding on to the back of a chair; I must go with you, she said. I cant take you, I told her.. And thea she said that she could follow me. That, I confess, put me in a rage: I was never anorier in my life. I imagined her appearing upon the scene there in Paris. A pretty spectacle I should be, followed about and tracked down by a wife of that agea wife, too, who was acting, not from affection, but solely from a sense of duty! With her school-girl face, that was a com- bination rather too ridiculous for a man to stand. To cut the story short, I left her then and there. That night I slept at a hotel, and the next day I sailed. I had changed my plan of travel, in order that she should not know for some time where I was; but I think I frightened her sufficiently abont following me before I left her. I not only expressly forbade it, but I told her that she wouldnt be re- ceived in case she should try it; there would be standing orders to that effect. I should never touch any more of her money, I told her (I never have to this day). She could set going any story she pleased about me, and I wouldnt contra- dict it. That would leave her very easy. On my side I should simply say nothing, and I should cause no scandal, she might be sure. With that I went off. On the other side I found a letter from hershe didnt know my address, but she had sent it to my lawyer. Ive brought that letter along for you to see; it will give you a better idea of her, as she was at the time, than any of my descriptions. And he took from his pocket-book an envelope, and tossed it across. Winthrop opened the envelope, and found a small sheet of paper, upon which, in a youthful handwriting, these words were written: My DEAR HUSBAND,I have staid here by myself in the house, and I have EAST ANGELS. 121 been very unhappy. I have not let any- body know that you were gone. I feel as though I must have done wrong, and yet I dont know how. Perhaps you will come back. I shall hope that you will, and I will wait here for your answer. If you do not corrie, please tell me what you think I had better do. I should rather do what you think best. I will come to you at any time ifyou know what. I could not come without. I hope you will soon send for me. And I am your affectionate wife, MARGARET HAROLD. You see theres no trace of jealousy, Lanse commented, in his generalizing way; she wasnt jealous, because she wasnt in love with menever had been. Of course she thought she loved rueshe never would have married me otherwise. But the truth was that at that time she had no more conception of what real love is than a little snow image: that was one of the reasons why I had first liked her. Ive no doubt she was horribly miserable when she wrote that letter, as she says she was. But there was no love in her misery; it was all duty. I grant you that with her that was a tremendously strong feeling. Well, I answered her letter; I told her she had better go and live with Aunt Katrina. And I put in againfor I saw that I must, if we were ever to have an end of writingthat I had left her de- liberately; that I was fully convinced that we should be much better off apart. She mustnt come to me unless I should send for her, and that in no case would she be received if she should try to come without my consent. I was firm about that. But we wouldnt make any talk. She could say I was travelling. That was what I should say myself. She wrote me once more, repeating her offer to come when- ever I should wish it; but I didnt wish it then, and didnt answer. Seven years have passed. and I havent answered yet. But now I think I shall try it. Winthrop had sat gazing at the little sheet, witl~the faded girlish handwriting. Hot feelings were surging within him; lie felt that lie must take a firm hold of him- self. This made his manner calm. What do you want of her ? lie said. Aunt Ka- trina couldnt get on a day without her. Aunt Katrina would give her up to me, said Lanse, securely. (And Win- throp knew that this was true.) What do I want of her? I want to have a home of my own again, a place where I can be comfortable; I want to have a place where I can keep all my shoes. I am not as young as I once was; I dont mind telling you that Ive had one or two pretty seri- ous attacksrheumatism threatening the heart. Its time to be old, to take in sail. Im a reformed character, and I dont see why Margaret shouldnt come and carry on the good workespecially as she has promised. The one danger is that she may have begun to But I hardly think that. Yes; the one danger may very well be that she has begun to hate you, said Win- throp. His eyes dwelt still upon the poor little letter. I didmit mean that; I meant that she might have begun to care for sonie one else. But I dont believe it. If it were only that she had begun to hate me, that would be nothing; she would think it very wrong to hate me (though she might not be able to help it), and that would make her come back all tIme quicker. Winthrop looked at him from under his tilted hat-lie had tilted it forward over his eyes. I should think it would make you sick to ask her, lie said- sick with shame. It isnt tIme least shameful; its the right thing to do, responded Lanse. But which side are you on, Ev? You seem to be all over the field. I dont know which side Im on. You cant take her up and drop her in that way. ~ Youve got it mixed. I dropped her seven years ago; now Im taking her up again. And if she is as I think she is, she will be glad to come. Oh ! said Winthrop, with angry scorn. Shell be glad, because shes my wife shes a stickler for that sort of thing. She is a very good woman. Thats the advan- tage of having a really good woman for your wifeyou cami rely upon her wheth- er she likes you or notlikes you very much, I mean. But I begin to think you dont know her as well as I do, after all, in spite of the time you have had. Know her? I dont know her in the least. I have never known herI see that miow. At this moment they heard the dip of an oar, and stopped. Coming down the narrow stream behind them, appeared a rude craft manned by a very black boy 122 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. and a very white baby. The boat was a long, rough dug-out, and the boy was pad- dling. His passenger, a plump child of about three, had the peculiar bleached skin of the Florida poor white, and flaxen hair of the palest straw-color. An immense calico sun-bonnet lay across its knee, and, after a slow stare with twisted neck at the two strangers, it lifted and put on this pent-house with dignity: to put it on was probably its idea of manners.~~ The pent-house, in fact, represented the principal part of its attire; there was no- thing else but a little red petticoat. But if the passenger was dignified, the oarsman was not; delighted to see any- body, the little darky had showed his white teeth in a perpetual grin from the moment the canoe had appeared in sight. Lanse always noticed children. Where have you been, Epaminonda~s ? he said, with pretended severity. What are you doing here ? Epaminondas, at the first suggestion of conversation, had stopped paddling. He accepted with cheerfulness the improvised name. Ben atter turkles, boss. But I aint fin none What is the name of that young lady you have with you ? Gin answered Epaminondas, with an even more extensive smile than before. The whole of it, I mean; I know theres more. Trufe, boss, der sholy is, responded Epaminondas, impressed by this omnis- cience. Gins wat dey calls her mosely; but Victoryne en John Mungumry Gin dats de hull ob it. Victoryne en John Mungumry is folks wat her ma knew whar she come fum, up in Alabawm, en she wanted to membunce em someways, so she called Gin atter em. En Gin dats Virginnywuz de name oh her dad- dys folks, dey tole me. I am surprised that her family should allow Miss Montgomery to be out without her nurse, Lanse went on. She aint got no nuss, Epaminon- das answered. En I hey to tote her mos er der time, en shes hebbyshe am dat! En so ter-day I lowed Id rudder take her in de boat a wiles. He looked anxiously at Lanse as he made this ex- planation. He was a thin little fellow of about ten, and Miss Montgomery was de- cidedly solid. Im inclined to think, my man, that youre out without leave; I advise you to go home as fast as you can. And mind you keep the boat straight. Yas, boss, answered Epaminondas, glad to escape, and plying his paddle again. He gave a Ki! of delight as a silver coin fell at his feet. Dont stop to pick it up now, said Lanse. Go on with Miss Montgomery; restore her to her par- ents as soon as possible. Epaminondas bent to his oar. The two men looked after him as the boat went on its way toward the outer creek. Suddenly, Good God ! cried Lanse springing to his feet. He had to unloose the rope. But he did that in an instant, and seizing the paddle, he sent the canoe flying dpwn- stream after the dug-out. Epaminondas, toiling at his oar, had not gone thirty feet when Lanse had seen a large moccasin drop froni a branch above directly into the long narrow boat as it passed beneath; the creature fell midway between the children, who occu- pied the two ends. Quick as a flash the little negio had jumped overboard. But that was in- stinct; he would not desert the white child, and swam on holding by the boats side, and screaming shrilly. Meanwhile Miss Montgomery sat coin- posedly in her place. She did not ap- pear at all disturbed. Winthrop had no oar, so he could not help. Lanse, standing up, forced the ca- noe through the water rapidly. But be- fore he could bring it up where he could seize the child, the little darky, who had not ceased to swim round and round the drifting craft, announced with a yell, as his curly black head peered for one in- stant over the side, that the snake was coiling for a spring. Then Lanse gave a mighty plunge into the stream, and, keeping himself up with one hand, snatched the girl and dragged her overboard by main force with the other, handing her in safety to Winthrop, who had taken the paddle and kept the canoe along. Lanse and the little darky then swam ashore, and stepped into the canoe again from the roots of a large tree, which served them for a landing. They were both wet through, of course. But Epaminoadas was amphibious; his single garment, a pair of trousers, could be as well dried upon his small person as upon a bush. With Lanse it was differ. EAST ANGELS. 123 ent. But at present Lause was excited; nothing would do but to go after that snake. which was now luxuriously voya- ging down the stream in a boat of his own. Taking the paddle, he sent the canoe in chase. Standing up as he drew near, he an- nounced that the moccasin was motion- less in the bottom of the dug-out. His next announcement was that it was ~rather a pretty fellow. Then, still standing up and gazing, I cant kill the poor creature, lie said; I doiit suppose lie meant any harm when he droppedhad no idea there was a boat there. Sending the canoe toward the land again, lie went ashore in the silvery forest, and found, after some search, a long branch; with this lie paddled back, and then, brandishing it at arnis-lengthi, lie tilted the dug-out, by its aid, so far over on one side, that the moccasin, perceiving that the element he preferred was con- veniently near, with silent swiftness join- ed it. Through all this scene, Miss Mont- gomery, plump and dryLanse hind held her above the waterremained serenely indifferent. She sat in her sun-bonnet on Winthrops knee, and preserved her digni- ty unbroken. Shucks ! said Epaminondas (now that the enemy had departed), expectorating, with an air of experience, into the stream; I is seed eni t~vicet ez bigger lots er times ! Lanse. resuming his seat, wiped his fore- head. His leap had been a strong exer- tion, and already his face showed the fa- tigue. He was a heavy man, and out of practice in such sorts of gymnastics. Have you any more notions to carry out ? inquired Winthrop. Ive beeii spinning back and forth in this boat about as long as I care for. Come, now, wasnt that a good deed ? asked Lanse (Lanse always wanted praise). I call it brutal to kill a poor creature simply because hes got no legs. You didnt happen to have your re- volver with you, I suppose ? Winthrop answered, refusing to bestow the applause. Never carried one in my life; coward- ly things ! responded Lanse, in a disgust- ed tone. He was hard at work paddling, in order to keep off a chill. Epaniinondas was put ashore at h~is owii lauding on the outer creek, and departed up a sandy path, leading Miss Mouitgoun- ery, his pockets unwontedly heavy with coin. He looked back as long as he could see them, throwing up and waving his ragged straw lint. But Miss Montgomery never turned; she plodded steadily homeward on her fat white legsall of her that he could see below the sun-bonnet. Lanses efforts to avoid a chill were ap- parently successful that night. But the next morning lie sent for Winthrop at an early hour. Hurrying to his room, Win- throp found him with a strange pallor on his face; he said he was in great pain. A physician staying in the house was sum- moned. It was the rheumatism Lanse hind already spoken of; but this time it did not merely threaten the heart; it had attacked it. For twelve hours there was much dan- ger. Then there was a lull. The lull was followed by something which had the appearance of a partial paralysis of the lower hinibs. Lanses head was now clear, but lie was helpless. It was, to begin withit had been this for yearsa case of a superb constitution wantonly trifled with; and the sudden exertion of that leap into the water to save the child, to- gether with the severe chill that had come on during the night, had brought out in- herited tendencies which might otherwise have lain dormant for years. The physi- cian said that Lanse could riot be taken to East Angels for the present; in two weeks or so he should be better able to say when lie could be moved. To Winthrop, in confidence, he said that in two weeks or so he should be better able to tell whether there was a chance that the present be- numbed condition would wear off. It might be thmat Lanse would never be able to sit erect again. A pretty fix, isnt it ? Lanse said, on the morning of the second day, as, opening his eyes, he found himself alone with his cousin. Apparenthy Im in for it thus time. Not going to die, but laid up with a vengeance. Well, the ships fast in port at last. I suppos~ now youve no objec- tion to bringing lVtargare t overprovided, of course, she will come Great was Katrina Rutherfords joy and triumphi when she heard that her boy, her Lanse, was so near her; only over on the river, a short days journey from here. She had always knowui that he would come; and now it was proved that site had beeui right. She hoped they ap- preciated it. (Her they meant Win- 124 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. throp and Margaret.) Spare Margaret? Of course she could spare her. Margarets place was with her husband; and espe- cially now was it her place if he were not well (Aunt Katrina had not been told how ill Lanse was). It was a great mistake, besides, to suppose that Margaret was so necessary to her. Margaret was not in the least necessary: that was one of their absurd fancies. Celestine was much more useful. And Looth too. But the point now was, not to talk about who was use- ful; the point was to have Margaret go. What was she waiting for, Aunt Katrina would like to be informed. Margaret was waiting for Mr. Moore. But she did not have to wait long. At the end of two hours that gentleman ap- peared, not breathlessfor he could have breathed perfectly even if he had run all the way from Savannahbut still with some sedate indications of haste on his delicate, delightfully good face. A car- riage was waiting at East Angels door; in ten minutes he and Margaret had start- ed on their journey toward the river. Mr. Moore had happened to be making a call at East Angels when Winthrop re- turned. Dr. Kirby was in Charleston. It was not thought safe to leave Mrs. Ruth- erford alone, even for two days, with only Celestine and Loothin spite of the high rank which that lady herself had assigned to them as skillful attendants. Winthrop was therefore to remain at East Angels, sending the best man nurse lie could find for Lanse from Gracias. And was Mar- garet to make her journey alone? Tela- no could go. But at this point Mr. Moore interposed; lie would go himself. It was a very simple matter; all he should have to do would be to ride up to town, tell Penelope, and get his bag; it was quite convenient for him to go. In reality it was extremely inconvenient, his absence at that particular moment af- fecting no less a questionthan their supply of meal for the next month; for the rector and his wife were obliged to consider with the most scrupulous care the assemblage of the various articles that went to make their modest dinner from day to day. But nothing that was to aid a friend seemed inconvenient to Middleton Moore; he would gladly eat fish for several weeks, if by doing so he could oblige Mrs. Harold, aiid he was sure that Penelopes feeling would be the same. Fortunately, there were always fish. Mounted, therefore, upon one of Win- throps tall horses (as faster than his own), he went up to Gracias and came back at a speed to which he was entirely unaccus- tomed. But his light weight flew easily up and down in the saddle. The horse knew the road; lie had only to hold on. I perceived, almost as soon as we start- ed, that lie was a very intelligent beast he remarked to Winthrop, as, having dis- mounted at East Angels door, lie stood for a nioment contemplating the animal, as if in doubt whether, after all, he had really been mounted lip there. But lie had iiot only been mounted, but had scoured the country at a speed that would have startled him greatly could he have seen himself shooting by. Winthrop, upon reaching East Angels, had asked for Margaret. Mr. Moore had gone in to see Mrs. Rutherford for a few moments, and Margaret had remained in the drawing-room; Winthrop went to her thei~e. I want to speak to you, he said; it wont take long, but we mustnt be inter- rupted. Any empty room will do. His manner had changed, lie did not de- fer to her now with the formal half-ex- aggerated politeness with which he had treated her so long, neither was there any of the anger in his voice which had been there during their last interview in that room. He did not wait for her answer but led the way himself across the hall to the boudoir of the Old Madam now never used. Nothing had been changed there since the Old Madams de- parture; even Mrs. Thorne, with her per- sisteiit desire to make everything serve some present use, had left this old furni- ture untouched. Garda liked the room: nothing had therefore been altered,though the house was no longer her property. Winthrop closed the door. They stood there together among the Old Madams stiff chairs. Everything was covered with embroidery, her own work, very elaborate and very ugly. There was a rather fierce- looking portrait of her on the wall. Lanse is here, said Winthrop. I mean over on the river. He is ill. He wants you to come to him. At his first words Ma.rgaret had given a great start. She put her hand across her heart. For a moment she did not speak. Then she stammered, Did you saydid you say lie was ill l She spoke almost inaudibly. A 7- ~ AT NONNENWERTH. From a drawing by E. A. Abbey. , V I ~CiZ7j \k\J\J\I\ / :1 6 -

A 7- ~ AT NONNENWERTH. From a drawing by E. A. Abbey. , V I ~CiZ7j \k\J\J\I\ / :1 6 - AT NONNENWERTH. 127 Its something like a partial paralysis. I dont know whether its really that, but hes helpless. Has he asked for me? He has sent me to bring you. Did he give you a lettera note ? No; he told me to bring you. Are you sure he told you that ? Good heavens! if I were not sure I should be a great deal better off. Why do you keep asking me? Isnt it bad enough for me to have to say it at all? Im in horrible pain, Margaret. If you could only know. But lie is ill, and that makes everything different. I couldnt have stood it otherwise. Stood Stood your going to him. I must go to him if he is ill. Illyes; thats the only thing that He stopped, and stood looking at her with a haggard face. I am afraid he is very ill. Yes, lie is very ill. But Im not think- ing about Lanse now. Im thinking about you. You need not do that, Margaret an- swered. She turned toward the door. I must go and make some preparations, she said. She had not yet recovered her self-control. Her voice stil] trembled. You shall not leave me so, said Win- throp, interposing. I kiiow everything, Margaret everything except why you have wished, why you have been deter- mined, that I should think of you in the way I have; that is, with such outrageous, such cruel wrong. Lanse has told me the whole story of his leaving you, not your leaving him. And before that, Garda had told me what really happened that after- noon in the woods. Why have you treat- ed me in this way? Why ? Margaret, whiter than he had ever seen her, stood before hiini, her hands tightly clasped, her eyes closed. She looked like a person straiired up to receive a blow. If you could only know how I feel when I look at you, when I think what tire truth really was, arid what I believed, Winthrop went on, infinite tenderness showing itself for an instant in his voice. But did I believe it? Perhaps I made myself believe it; perliaps I felt that it was safer- He stopped. Only tell inc one thing before you go, Margaret tell nie that it wasnt because you despised me that you let rime think so. You might very well say that you were punishing me for my immeasurable conceit and stnpidity during all those years. It wouldnt be half enough. For that I can never atone. Margaret had put out her hands as if she were feeling her way like a person who has grown blind. I must go; dont keep me longer, she said, in a broken voice. She struggled with herself for a mo- miment. But it ended in her turning to- ward him again. And there was a beau- tiful expression in her eyes. I must go to my husband, she said. Yes; I am selHshi, answered Win- throp. I must learn to bear what I am feeling now better than this, or you really will despise me, Margaret. His face con- tracted sharply, as though from pain. Bat he opened the door. Margaret went hastily out. AT NONNENWERTH. KNIGHT ROLAND sate above the Rhine: 0 Bride of God, that walkest there, Gone is the gold-light of thy hair, And never more thy blue eyes shine May rise to meet the love of mine. Calm as the river as it flows Beneath the overhanging leaves, And still as are the nunnerys eaves When low and hushed tIne night wind blows, Thy heart is wrapped in deaths repose. Look up! look up! Ab, rio; tIne sod Thou walkest on is not more cold To all the love tales we have told In olden days. The weary road Thou still must travel, Bride of God !

AT NONNENWERTH. 127 Its something like a partial paralysis. I dont know whether its really that, but hes helpless. Has he asked for me? He has sent me to bring you. Did he give you a lettera note ? No; he told me to bring you. Are you sure he told you that ? Good heavens! if I were not sure I should be a great deal better off. Why do you keep asking me? Isnt it bad enough for me to have to say it at all? Im in horrible pain, Margaret. If you could only know. But lie is ill, and that makes everything different. I couldnt have stood it otherwise. Stood Stood your going to him. I must go to him if he is ill. Illyes; thats the only thing that He stopped, and stood looking at her with a haggard face. I am afraid he is very ill. Yes, lie is very ill. But Im not think- ing about Lanse now. Im thinking about you. You need not do that, Margaret an- swered. She turned toward the door. I must go and make some preparations, she said. She had not yet recovered her self-control. Her voice stil] trembled. You shall not leave me so, said Win- throp, interposing. I kiiow everything, Margaret everything except why you have wished, why you have been deter- mined, that I should think of you in the way I have; that is, with such outrageous, such cruel wrong. Lanse has told me the whole story of his leaving you, not your leaving him. And before that, Garda had told me what really happened that after- noon in the woods. Why have you treat- ed me in this way? Why ? Margaret, whiter than he had ever seen her, stood before hiini, her hands tightly clasped, her eyes closed. She looked like a person straiired up to receive a blow. If you could only know how I feel when I look at you, when I think what tire truth really was, arid what I believed, Winthrop went on, infinite tenderness showing itself for an instant in his voice. But did I believe it? Perhaps I made myself believe it; perliaps I felt that it was safer- He stopped. Only tell inc one thing before you go, Margaret tell nie that it wasnt because you despised me that you let rime think so. You might very well say that you were punishing me for my immeasurable conceit and stnpidity during all those years. It wouldnt be half enough. For that I can never atone. Margaret had put out her hands as if she were feeling her way like a person who has grown blind. I must go; dont keep me longer, she said, in a broken voice. She struggled with herself for a mo- miment. But it ended in her turning to- ward him again. And there was a beau- tiful expression in her eyes. I must go to my husband, she said. Yes; I am selHshi, answered Win- throp. I must learn to bear what I am feeling now better than this, or you really will despise me, Margaret. His face con- tracted sharply, as though from pain. Bat he opened the door. Margaret went hastily out. AT NONNENWERTH. KNIGHT ROLAND sate above the Rhine: 0 Bride of God, that walkest there, Gone is the gold-light of thy hair, And never more thy blue eyes shine May rise to meet the love of mine. Calm as the river as it flows Beneath the overhanging leaves, And still as are the nunnerys eaves When low and hushed tIne night wind blows, Thy heart is wrapped in deaths repose. Look up! look up! Ab, rio; tIne sod Thou walkest on is not more cold To all the love tales we have told In olden days. The weary road Thou still must travel, Bride of God ! WAY DOWN IN LONESOME COVE. ONE memorable night in Lonesome Cove the ranger of the county enter- ed upon a momeiitous crisis in his life. What hour it was he could hardly have said, for the primitive household reckoned time by the sun when it shone, by the do- mestic routine when no better might be. It was late. The old crone in the chim- ney-corner nodded over her knitting. In the trundle-bed at the further end of the shadowy room were transverse billows under the quilts, which intimated that the small children were numerous enough for the necessity of sleeping crosswise. He had smoked out many pipes, and at last knocked the cinder from the bowl. The great hickory logs had burned asunder and fallen from the stones that served as andirons. He began to slowly cover the embers xvith ashes, that the fire might keep till morning. His wife, a faded woman, grown early old, was bringing the stone jar of yeast to place close by the hearth,that it might not take a chill in some sudden change of the night. It was heavy, and she bent in carrying it. Awkward, and perhaps nerv- ous, she brought it sharply against the shovel in his hands. The clash roused the old crone in the corner. She recognized the situation in- stantly, and the features that sleep had re- laxed into inexpressiveness took on a wea- ry apprehension, which they wore like a habit. The man barely raised his surly black eyes, but his wife drew back humbly with a mutter of apology. The next moment the shovel was al- most thrust out of his grasp. A tiny barefooted girl, in a straight unbleached cotton night-gown and a quaint little cot- ton night - cap, cavalierly pushed him aside, that she might cover in the hot ash- es a burly sweet-potato, destined to slowly roast before morning. A. long and care- ful job she made of it, and unconcernedly kept him waiting while she pottered back and forth about the hearth. She looked up once with an authoritative eye, and he hastily helped to adjust the potato with the end of the shovel. And then lie glanced at her, incongruously enough, as if waiting for her autocratic nod of ap- proval. She gravely accorded it, and pat- tered nimbly across the puncheon floor to the already well-filled bed. Now, he drawled, in gruff accents, ef you-uns hey all hed yer fill o foohin with this hyar fire, Ill kiver it, like I hey started out ter do. At this moment there was a loud tram- pling upon the porch without. The bat- ten door shook violently. The ranger sprang up. As he frowned, the hair on his scalp, drawn forward, seemed to rise like bristles. Dad burn that thar fresky filly ! he cried, angrily. Jes brung her noisy bones up on that thar porch agin, an her hiuffs will bust spang through the planks o the floor, the fust thing ye know. The narrow aperture, as lie held the door ajar, showed outlined against the darkness the graceful head of a young mare, and once more hoof-beats resound- ed on the rotten planks of the porch. Clouds were adrift in the sky. No star gleamed in the wide space high above the sombre mountains. On every side they encompassed Lonesome Cove, which seem - ed to have importunately thrust itself into the darkling solemnities of their intimacy. All at once the ranger let the door fly from his hand, and stood gazing in blank amazement. For there was a strange mo- tion in the void vastnesses of the wilder- ness. They were creeping into view. How, lie could not say, but the sumniit of the great mountain opposite was marvel- bushy distinct against the sky. He saw the naked, gaunt December woods. He saw the grim gray crags. And yet Lone- some Cove below and the spurs on the oth- er side were all beiiiglited. A pale flicker- ing light was dawning in the clouds; it brightened, faded, glowed again, and their sad gray folds assumed a vivid vermilion reflection, for there was a fire in the for- est below. Only these reactions of color on time clouds betokened its presence and its progress. Sometimes a fluctuation of orange crossed them, then a glancing line of blue, and once more that living red hue which only a pulsating flame can bestow. Air it the comm o the Jedgmint Day, Tobe ? asked his wife, in a meek ~vhisper. Id be afraid so if I war ez big a sin- ner ez you-uns, he returned. The woods air afire, the old woman declared, in a shrill voice. They be a-soakin with has nights rain, lie retorted, gruffly. The mare was standing near the porch. Suddenly he mounted her and rode hasti

WAY DOWN IN LONESOME COVE. ONE memorable night in Lonesome Cove the ranger of the county enter- ed upon a momeiitous crisis in his life. What hour it was he could hardly have said, for the primitive household reckoned time by the sun when it shone, by the do- mestic routine when no better might be. It was late. The old crone in the chim- ney-corner nodded over her knitting. In the trundle-bed at the further end of the shadowy room were transverse billows under the quilts, which intimated that the small children were numerous enough for the necessity of sleeping crosswise. He had smoked out many pipes, and at last knocked the cinder from the bowl. The great hickory logs had burned asunder and fallen from the stones that served as andirons. He began to slowly cover the embers xvith ashes, that the fire might keep till morning. His wife, a faded woman, grown early old, was bringing the stone jar of yeast to place close by the hearth,that it might not take a chill in some sudden change of the night. It was heavy, and she bent in carrying it. Awkward, and perhaps nerv- ous, she brought it sharply against the shovel in his hands. The clash roused the old crone in the corner. She recognized the situation in- stantly, and the features that sleep had re- laxed into inexpressiveness took on a wea- ry apprehension, which they wore like a habit. The man barely raised his surly black eyes, but his wife drew back humbly with a mutter of apology. The next moment the shovel was al- most thrust out of his grasp. A tiny barefooted girl, in a straight unbleached cotton night-gown and a quaint little cot- ton night - cap, cavalierly pushed him aside, that she might cover in the hot ash- es a burly sweet-potato, destined to slowly roast before morning. A. long and care- ful job she made of it, and unconcernedly kept him waiting while she pottered back and forth about the hearth. She looked up once with an authoritative eye, and he hastily helped to adjust the potato with the end of the shovel. And then lie glanced at her, incongruously enough, as if waiting for her autocratic nod of ap- proval. She gravely accorded it, and pat- tered nimbly across the puncheon floor to the already well-filled bed. Now, he drawled, in gruff accents, ef you-uns hey all hed yer fill o foohin with this hyar fire, Ill kiver it, like I hey started out ter do. At this moment there was a loud tram- pling upon the porch without. The bat- ten door shook violently. The ranger sprang up. As he frowned, the hair on his scalp, drawn forward, seemed to rise like bristles. Dad burn that thar fresky filly ! he cried, angrily. Jes brung her noisy bones up on that thar porch agin, an her hiuffs will bust spang through the planks o the floor, the fust thing ye know. The narrow aperture, as lie held the door ajar, showed outlined against the darkness the graceful head of a young mare, and once more hoof-beats resound- ed on the rotten planks of the porch. Clouds were adrift in the sky. No star gleamed in the wide space high above the sombre mountains. On every side they encompassed Lonesome Cove, which seem - ed to have importunately thrust itself into the darkling solemnities of their intimacy. All at once the ranger let the door fly from his hand, and stood gazing in blank amazement. For there was a strange mo- tion in the void vastnesses of the wilder- ness. They were creeping into view. How, lie could not say, but the sumniit of the great mountain opposite was marvel- bushy distinct against the sky. He saw the naked, gaunt December woods. He saw the grim gray crags. And yet Lone- some Cove below and the spurs on the oth- er side were all beiiiglited. A pale flicker- ing light was dawning in the clouds; it brightened, faded, glowed again, and their sad gray folds assumed a vivid vermilion reflection, for there was a fire in the for- est below. Only these reactions of color on time clouds betokened its presence and its progress. Sometimes a fluctuation of orange crossed them, then a glancing line of blue, and once more that living red hue which only a pulsating flame can bestow. Air it the comm o the Jedgmint Day, Tobe ? asked his wife, in a meek ~vhisper. Id be afraid so if I war ez big a sin- ner ez you-uns, he returned. The woods air afire, the old woman declared, in a shrill voice. They be a-soakin with has nights rain, lie retorted, gruffly. The mare was standing near the porch. Suddenly he mounted her and rode hasti WAY DOWN IN LONESOME COVE. 129 ly off, without a word of InS intention to the staring women in the doorway. He left freedom of speech behind him. Take yer bones along, then, ye tongue- tied catamount ! his wifes mother apos- trophized him, with all the acrimony of long repression. Got no mo politeness n a settin hen, she muttered, as she turned back into the room. The young woman lingered wistfully. I wisht lie wouldnt go a-ridin off that thar way thout lettin we-un know whar he air bound fur, an when hell kem back. He mought git hurt some ways roun that thar fliegit overtook by it, inebbe. Ef he war roasted, twould he mighty peaceful round in Lonesome, the old crone exclaimed rancorously. Her daughter stood for a moment with the bar of the (loor iii her haiid, still gazing out at the flare in the sky. The unwont- ed emotion had conjured a change in the stereotyped patience in her face even anxiety, even the acuteness of fear seem- ed a less pathetic expression than that meek monotony bespeaking a broken spir it. As she lifted her eyes to the mount- ain, one might wonder to see that they were so blue. In the many haggard lines drawn upon her face, the effect of the straight lineaments was lost; but just now, embellished with a flush, she looked youngas young as her years. As she buttoned the door and put up the bar,her mothers attention was caught by the change. Peering at her critically, and shading her eyes with her hand from the uncertain flicker of the tallow dip, she broke out, passionately: Waal, Madeli- ny, who would ever hey thought ez yer cake would be all dough? Sech a laffin, plump, spry gal ez ye useter be-fur all the worl like a fresky young (leer! An sech a pack o men ez ye hed the chice amongst! An ter pick out Tobe Gryce an marry him, an kern way down hyar ter live aloiig o him in Lonesome Cove She chuckled aloud, not that she relish- ed her mirth, but the liarlequinade of fate constrained a laugh for its antics. The words recalled the past to Madeline; it rose visibly before her. She had had scant leisure to reflect that her life might have been ordered differently. In her widening eyes were new depths, a vague terror, a wild speculation, all struck aghast by its own temerity. Ye never said nuthin ter hender, she faltered. I never knowed Tobe, scacely. Howls ennybody goin ter know a man ez lived way off down hyar in Lonesome Cove ?, her mother retorted, acridly, on the defen- sive. He never courted me, nohows. All the word he gin me war, Howdy,~ an~ I gin him no less. There was a pause. Madeline knelt on the hearth. She placed together the brokeii chunks, and fanned the flames with a turkey wing. I wont kiver the fire yit, she said, thoughtfully. ~He mought be chilled when he gits home. The feathery flakes of the ashes flew; they caught here and there in her brown hair. The blaze flared up, and flickered over her flushed, pensive face and glowed in her large and brilliant eyes. Tobe said Howdy, her mother bick- ered on. I knowed by that ez he hed the gift o speech, but he spent no mo words on me. Then, suddenly: I war a fool, though, ter gin my cornsent ter yer marryin him, hem ez ye war the only child I lied, an I knowed Id hey ter live with ye way down hiyar in Lonesome Cove. I wish now ez ye hed abided by yer fust chice an married Luke Todd. Madeline looked up with a gathering frown. I hey no call ter spen words bout Luke Todd, she said, with dignity, ez me an him are both married ter other folks. I never said ye lied, hastily replied time old woman, rebuked and embarrassed. Presently, however, her vagrant specula- tion went recklessly on. Though ez ter Lukes marryin, taint wuth while ter set store on sech. The gal lie found over thiar in Big Fox Valley favors ye ez close ez two black-eyed peas. Thats why he married her. She looks percisely like ye useter look. An she laffs the same. An I reckon she aint lied no call ter quit laffin, kase he air a powerful easy-goin man. Leastways he useter be when we- uns kiiowed him. That aint no sign, said Madeline. A saafter-spokemi body I never seen than Tobe war when lie fust kem a-courtin round the settlemint. Sechi ez that aint goin ter las no- ways, dryly remarked the philosopher of thie chimney-corner. This might seem rather a reflection upon thie courting gentry in general than a persommal observatiomi. But Madeline~ s consciousness lent it point. 130 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Laws-a-rnassy, she said, Tobe aint so rampagious, nohows, ez folks niake him out. He air tolerble peaceable, corn- siderin ez nobody hey ever hed grit enough ter make a stand agin him, thout twar the Cunnel thar. She glanced around at the little girls face framed in the frill of her night-cap, and peaceful and infantile as it lay on the pillow. Whenst the Cunnel war born, Mad- eline went on, languidly reminiscent, Tobe war powerful outed kase she war a gal. I reckon ye members ez how lie said he bed no use for sech cattle ez that. An when she tuk sick he lowed he seen no differ. Jes ez well die ez live, ez lie said. An bein ailin, the Cunnel tuk it inter her head ter holler. Sech hollerin we-uns hed never hearn with none o the tother chilren. The boys war nowbar. But a-fust it never sturbed Tobe. He jes yelled out same ez he useter do at the tothers, Shet up, ye pop-eyed buzzard! Waal, sir, the Cunnel jes blinked at him, an braced herself ez stiff, an yelled! I lowed twould take off the roof. An Tobe said hed wring her neck ef she warnt so mewlin - lookin an peaked. An he tuk her up an walked across the floor with her, an she sliet up; an he walk- ed back agin, an she staid shet up. Ef he sot down fur a minit, she yelled so ez yed think yed be deef fur life, an ye niost hoped ye would be. So Tobe war obleeged ter tote her agin ter git shet o the noise. He got started on that thiar forced march, ez he calls it, an lie never could git offn it. Trot lie must when the Cunnel pleased. He lowed she re- minded him o that thar old Cunnel that lie sarved under in the wars. Ef it kill- ed the regiment, he got thar on time. Sence then the Cunnel jes gins Tobe her orders, an he moseys ter do eni quick, jes like he war obleeged ter obey. I blieve he air, somehows. Waal, some day, said the disaffected old woman, assuming a port of prophetic wisdom. Tobe will find a differ. Thar aint no man so headin ez dont git treat- ed with perslimness by somebody some time. I knowed a man wunst ez owned fower horses an cattle - critters quarry- spondin. aii he couldnt prove ez lie war too old ter be summonsed ter work on the road, an war fined by the overseer cord- in ter law. Tobe will git his wheel scotch- ed yit, sure ez ye air born. Somebody be- sides the Cunnel will skeer up grit enough ter make a stand agin him. I don know how other men kin sleep o night, knowin how he be always darin folks ter differ with him, an how brigaty he be. The Bible pears ter me ter hey Tobe in special mind when it gits ter mournin boutn the stiff- necked ones. The spirited young mare that the ran- ger rode strove to assert herself against him now and then, as she went at a break- neck speed along the sandy bridle-path through the woods. How was she to know that the white-wanded young wil- low by the way-side was not some spirit- ual nianifestatioii as it suddenly material- ized iii a broken beam from a rift in the clouds? But as she reared and plunged, she felt his heavy hand and his heavy heel, and so forward again at a stea(ly pace. The forests served to screen the strange light in the sky, and the lonely road was dark, save where the moonbeani was splintered and the mists loitered. Presently there were cinders flying in the breeze, a smell of smoke pervaded the air, and the ranger forgot to curse the mare when she stumbled. I won(ler, lie muttered, what them no count half-livers o town folks hey lied the insurance ter let ketch afire thar ? The infirmities of his pronunciation must be duly considered; he was not suf- ficiently sophisticated to appreciate the necessity of insurance before letting things catch fire. As lie neared the brink of the mount- am lie saw a dense column of smoke against the sky, and a break in the woods showed the little townthe few log houses, the gyarden spots about them, and in the ceiitre of the Square a great mass of coals, a flame flickering here and there, two gaunt and tottering chimneys where once the court-house had stood. At some distancefor the heat was still intense were grouped the slouching, spiritless fig- ures.of the mountaineers. On the porches of the houses, plainly visible in the un- wonted red glow, were knots of women and childrenhere and there a brat in the scamitiest of raiment ran nimbly in and out. The clouds still borrowed the hi~ht from below, and the solemn leafless woods on one side were outlined distinctly against the reflection in the sky. The flare show- ed, too, the abrupt precipice on the other side, the abysmal gloom of the valley, the WAY DOWN IN LONESOME COVE. 131 austere summit-line of the mountain be- yond, and gave the dark mysteries of the night a sombre revelation, as in visible blackness it filled the illimitable space. The little mare was badly blown as the ranger sprang to the ground. He himself was panting with amaze and eagerness. The stray-book I he cried. Whars the stray-book ? One by one the slow group turned, all looking at him with a peering expression as he loomed distorted through the shim- mer of the heat above the bed of live coals and the hovering smoke. Whars the stray-book ? he reiterated, imperiously. Whars the court-house, I reckon ye mean ter say, replied the sheriffa burly mountaineer in brown jeans and high boots on which the spurs jingled; for in his excitement he had put them on as me- chanically as his clothes, as if they were an essential part of his attire. Naw, I aint meanin ter say whars the court-house, said the ranger, coming up close, with the red glow of the fire on his face, and his eyes flashing under the broad brim of his wool hat. He had a threatening aspect, and his elongated shad- ow, following him and repeating the men- ace of his attitude, seemed to back him up. Ye air sech a triflin, slack-twisted tribe hyar in town, ez ennybody would know ef a spark cotclied fire ter suthin, yed set an suck yer paws, an eye it till it boda- ciously burnt up the court-housesech a dad-burned lazy set o half-livers ye be! I never axed boutn the court-house. I want ter know whars that thar stray- book, he concluded, inconsequently. Tobe Gryce, ye air fairly demented, exclaimed the registera chi n-whiskered, grizzled old fellow, sitting on a stump and hugging his knee with a desolate, be- reaved look talkin bout the stray-book, an all the records gone! What will folks do ~bout thar deeds, an mortgages, an sech? An that thar keerful index ez I bed made ez straight ez a stringall cinders ! He shook his head, a forlorn masculine Rachel, mourning alike for the party of the first part and the party of the second part, and the vestiges of all that they had agreed together. An ye ter kem mopin hyar this time o night arter the stray-book I said the sheriff. Shucks ! And he turned aside and spat disdainfully on the ground. I want that thar stray-book ! cried Gryce, indignantly. Aint nobody seen it ? Then realizing the futility of the question, he yielded to a fresh burst of an- ger, and turned upon the bereaved regis- ter. An did ye jes set thar an say, Good Mister Fire,dont burn the records; what 11 folks do bout thar deeds an sech? an hold them claws o yourn. an see the court-house burn up, with that thar stray- book in it ? Half a dozen men spoke up. The fire tuk inside, an the court-house war haffen gone fore twar seen, said one, in sulky extenuation. Leave Tobe belet him jaw ! said another, cavalierly. Tobe pears ter be spilin fur a fight, said a third, impersonally, as if to direct the attention of any belligerent in the group to the opportunity. The register had an expression of slow cunning as he cast a glance up at the overbearing ranger. What ailed the stray-book ter bide hyar in the court-house all night, Tobe? Couldnt ye gin it house-room? Thar warnt no special need fur it to be hyar. Tobe Gryces face showed that for once he was at a loss. He glowered down at the register and said nothing. Ez ter me, resumed that worthy, by the law o the land my books war obligated ter be thar. He quoted mourn- fully, shall at all times be and remain in his office. He gathered up his knee again and sub- sided into silence. All the freakish spirits of the air were a-loose in the wind. In fitful gusts they rushed up the gorge, and suddenly the boughs would fall still again, and one could hear the eerie rout a-rioting far off down the valley. Now and then the glow of the fire would deepen, the coals trem- ble, and with a gleaming fibrous swirl, like a garment of flames, a sudden anima- tion would sweep over it, as if an appari- tion had passed, leaving a line of flying coals to mark its trail. Im ooin home, drawled Tobe Gryce presently. I dont keer a frogs toe-nail ef the whole settlernint burns bodaciously up; taint nutliin ter me. I hey never hankered ter live in towns an git tuk up with town ways, an set an view the court- house like the apple o my eye. We-uns dont ketch fire down in the Cove, though mebbe we aint so peart ez folks ez herd ter- gether like sheep an sech. 132 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. The footfalls of the little black mare annotated the silence of the place as he rode away into the darkling woods. The groups gradually disappeared from the porches. The few voices that sounded at long intervals were low and drowsy. The red fire smouldered in the centre of the place, and sometimes about it appeared so doubtful a shadow that it could hardly argue substance. Far away a dog barked, and then was still. Presently the great mountains loom ag- gressively along the horizon. The black abysses, the valleys and coves, show dun- colored verges and grow gradually dis- tinct, and on the slopes the ash and the pine and the oak are all lustrous with a silver rime. The mists are rising, a wind springs up, the clouds set sail, and a beam slants high. What I want ter know, said a mount- aineer newly arrived on the scene, sitting on the verge of the precipice, and daii- gling his long legs over the depths be- neath, air how do folks ez live way down in Lonesome Cove, an who nobody knowed nuthin about noways, ever git lected ranger o the county ennyhow. I aint sprised none ter hear bout Tobe Gryces goins-on hyar las night. I hey looked fur moren that. Waal, Ill tell ye, replied the regis- ter. Nuthin hut favoritism in the county court. Ranger air lected by the jestices. Ye know, he added, vainglorious of his own tenure of office by the acclaiming voice of the sovereign people, ranger aint lected, like the register, by poplar vote. A slow smoke still wreathed upward from the charred ruins of the court-house. Gossiping groups stood here and there, mostly the jeans-clad mountaineers, hut there were a few who wore store clothes, being lawyers from more sophisticated re- gions of the circuit. Court had been in session the previous day. The jury, serv- ing in a criminal casestill strictly segre- gated, and in charge of an officerwere walking about wearily, waiting with what patience they might their formal dis- charge. The sheriffs dog, a great yellow cur trotted in the rear. When the officer was first elected, this animal, observing the change in his master~s habits, de- duced his own conclusions. He seemed to think the court-house belonged to the sheriff, and thenceforward guarded the door with snaps and growls: being a for- midable brute, his idiosyncrasies invested the getting into and getting out of law with abnormal difficulties. Now, as he follow- ed the disconsolate jury, he bore the vigi- lant mien with which he formerly drove up the cows, and if a juror loitered or stepped aside from the path, the dog made a slow detour as if to round him in, and the melancholy cort~ge wandered on as before. More than one looked wistfully at the group on the crag, foj it was distin- guished by that sprightly interest which scandal excites so readily. Ter my way of thinkin, drawled Sam Peters, swinging his feet over the giddy depths of the valley, Tobe aint sech ez oughter be set over the county ez a ranger, noways. Pears not ter me, an I hey been keepin my eye on him mighty sharp. A shadow fell among the group, and a man sat down on a bowlder hard by. He, too, had just arrived, being lured to the town by the news of the fire. His slide had been left at the verge of the clearing, and one of the oxen had already lain down~ the other, although hampered by the yoke thus diagonally displaced, stood medita- tively gazing at the distant blue mount- ains. Their master nodded a slow, grave salutation to the group, produced a. plug of tobacco, gnawed a fragment from it, and restored it to his pocket. He had a pensive face, with an expression which in a man of wider culture we should dis- criminate as denoting sensibility. He had long yellow hair that hung down to his shoulders, and a tangled yellow beard. There was something at once wistful and searching in his gray eyes, dull enough too, at times. He lifted them heavily, and they had a drooping lid and lash. There seem- ed an odd incongruity between this sensi- tive weary face and his stalwart physique. He was tall and well proportioned. A lea- ther belt girded his brown jeans coat. The ends of his trousers were stuffed into great cowhide hoots. His pose, as he leaned on the rock, had a muscular picturesqueness. Who be ye a-talkin about? he drawled. Peters relished his opportunity. He laughed in a distorted fashion, his pipe- stem held between his teeth. You - uns aint wantin ter swop lies bout sech ez him, Luke! We war a-tahkin bout Tobe Gryce. The color flared into the new-coiners face. A sudden animation fired his eye. WAY DOWN IN LONESOME COVE. 133 Tobe Gryce air jes the man Im al- ways wantin ter hear a word about. Jes perceed with yer rat-kuhn. Im with ye. And Luke Todd placed his elbows on his knees and leaned forward with an air of attention. Peters looked at him, hardly compre- hending this ebullition. It was not what he had expected to elicit. No one laughed. His fleer was wide of the mark. Waal he made another effort Tobe, we war jes sayin, aint fitten fur ter be ranger o the county. He be ez peart in gittin ter own other folkses stray cattle ez he war in courtin other folkses sweetheart, an, ef the truth inns be know- ed, in marryin her. He suddenly twisted round, in some danger of falling from his perch. I want ter ax one o them thar big- headed lawyers a question on a pint o law, he broke off abruptly. What be Tobe Gryce a-doin of now asked Luke Todd, with eager interest in the subject. Waal. resumed Peters, nowise loath to return to the gossip, Tobe, ye see, air the ranger o this hyar county, an by law all the stray horses ez air tuk up by folks hey ter be reported ter him, an appraised by two householders, an swore to afore the magistrate an be advertised by the ranger, an ef they aint claimed fore twelve months, the taker-up kin pay into the county treasury one - haffen the ap- praisement an hey the critter fur hisn. An the owner cant prove it away arter that. Thanky, said Luke Todd, dryly. Spose ye teach yer granmammy ter suck aigs. I knowed all that afore. Peters was abashed, and with some dif- ficulty collected himself. An I knowed ye knowed it, Luke, he hastily conceded. But hyar be what Im a-lookin atthe law aint got no pervision fur a stray horse ez kem of a dark night, thout nobodys percuremint, ter the ran- gers own house. Now, the pint o law ez I wanted ter ax the lawyers bout air this kin the ranger be the ranger an the taker-up too ? He turned his eyes upon the great land- scape lying beneath, flooded with the chill matutinal sunshine, and flecked here and there with the elusive shadows of the fleecy drifting clouds. Far away the long hon- zontal lines of the wooded spurs, conver- ging on either side of the valley and rising one behind the other wore a subdued azure, all unlike the burning blue of sum- mer, and lay along the calm, passionless sky, that itself was of a dim, repressed tone. On the slopes nearer, the leafless boughs, massedtogether had purplish-garnet depths of color wherever the sunshine struck aslant, and showed richly against the faint- ly tinted horizon. Here and there among the boldly jutting gray crags hung an ever- green vine, and from a gorge on the oppo- site mountain gleamed a continuous flash, like the waving of a silver plume, where a cataract sprang down the rocks. In the depths of the valley, a field in which crab- grass had grown in the place of the har- vested wheat showed a tiny square of palest yellow, and beside it a red clay road, run- ning over a hill, was visible. Above all a hawk was flying. Afore the winter fairly set in las year, Peters resumed, presently, a stray kem ter Tobes house. He lowed ter me ez he fund her a-standin by the fodder-stack a-pulhin offn it. An he quired round, an he never hearno no owner. I reckon he never axed outside o Lonesome, he added, cynically. He puffed industriously at his pipe for a few moments; then continued: Waal, he lowed he couldnt feed the critter fur fun. An he couldnt work her till she war appraised an sech, that bein agin the law fur strays. So he jes ondertook ter be ranger an taker-up toothe bang- edest consarn in the kentry! Ef the leetle mare hed been wall-eyed, or lame, or ennv- thing, he wouldnt hey wanted ter be ran- ger an taker-up too. But she air the peart- est little beastisshe war jes bridle-wise when she fust kemyoung an spry ! Luke Todd was about to ask a question, but Peters, disregarding him, persisted: Waal, Tobe tuk up the beastis, an I reckon he reported her ter hisself, hem the rangerthe critter makes me laff an he lied that thar old haffen-bhind un- cle o hisn an Perkins Bates, ez be never sober, ter appraise the vally o the mare, an I spose lie delivered thar certificate ter hiisself, an I reckon he tuk oath that she kem thout his procuremint ter his place, in the presence o the ranger. I reckon thar aint no law agin the rangers bein a ranger an a taker-up too, put in one of tIme by-standers. Taint like a shierffs buyin at his own sale. An he hed ter pay haffen her vally into the treasury o the county arter twelve months, ef the owiier never proved her away.~~ 134 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Thar aint no sign lie everpaid a cent said Peters, with a malicious grin, pointing at the charred remains of the court-house, an the treasurer air jes dead. Waal, Tobe hed ter make a report ter the jedge o the county court every six months. The papers of his office air cinders, retorted Peters. Wa~al, then, argued the optimist, the stray-book will show ez she war re- ported an sech. The ranger took mighty particlar pains ter hey his stray-book in that thar court-house when twar burnt. There was a long pause while the party sat ruminating upon the suspicions thus suggested. Luke Todd heard them, not without a thrill of satisfaction. He found them easy to adopt. And he, too, had a disposition to theorize. It takes a mighty mean man ter steal a horse, he said. Stealin a horse air powerful close ter murder. Folkses lives fairly depend on a horse ter work thar corn an sech, an make a support fur em. I hey knowed folks ter kem mighty close ter starvin through hevin thar horse stole. Why, even that thar leetle filly of ourn, though she hednt been fairly bruk ter the plough, war mightily missed. We-uns hed ter make out with the old sor- rel, ez air nigh fourteen year old, ter work the crap, an we war powerful disapp~int- ed. But we aint never fund no trace o the filly sence she war tolled off one night las fall a year ago. The hawk and its winged shadow disap- peared together in the dense glooms of a deep gorge. Luke Todd watched them as they vanished. Suddenly be lifted his eyes. They were wide with a new speculation. An angry flare blazed in them. What sortn beastis is this hyar mare ez the ranger tuk up l he asked. Peters looked at him, hardly compre- hending his tremor of excitement. Seems sorter sizable, he replied, sibilantly, suck- ing his pipe-stem. Todd nodded meditatively several times, leaning his elbows on his knees, his eyes fixed on the landscape. Hey she got enny partichar marks, ez ye knows on he drawled. Waal, she be ez black ez a crow, with the nigh fore-foot white. An she hey got a white star spang in the middle o her forehead, an the left side o her nozzle is white too. Todd rose suddenly to his feet. By gum ! he cried, with a burst of passion she air my filly! An twar that thar durned horse-thief of a ranger ez tolled her off! Deep among the wooded spurs Lone- some Cove nestles, sequestered from the world. Naught emigrates thence except an importunate stream that forces its way through a rocky gap, and so to freedom beyond. No stranger intrudes; only the moon looks in once in a while. The roam- ing wind may explore its solitudes; and it is but the vertical sun that strikes to the heart of the little basin, because of the massive mountains that wall it round and serve to isolate it. So nearly do they meet at the gap that one great assertive crag, beetling far above, intercepts the view of the wide landscape beyond, leaving its substituted profile jaggedly serrating the changing sky. Above it, when the wea- ther is fair, appear vague blue lines, dis- tant mountain summits, cloud strata vi- sions. Below its jutting verge may be caught glimpses of the widening valley without. But pre-emineut, gaunt, sombre, it sternly dominates Lonesome, and is the salient feature of the little world it limits. Tobe Gryces house ,gray, weather-beat- en, moss-grown, had in comparison an ephemeral, modern aspect. For a hun- dred years its inmates had come and gone and lived and died. They took no heed of the crag, but never a sound was lost upon it. Their drawling iterative speech the iterative echoes conned. The ringing blast of a horn set astir some phantom chase in the air. When the cows came lowing home, there were lowing herds in viewless company. Even if one of the children sat on a rotting log crooning a vague, fragmentary ditty, some faint- voiced spirit in the rock would sing. Lone- some Cove hhome of invisible throngs! As the ranger trotted down the wind- ing road, the multitudinous hoof - beats, as of a troop of cavalry, heralded his ap- proach to the little girl who stood on the porch of the log cabin and watched for him. Hyre, Cunnel ! he cried, cordially. But the little Colonel took no heed. She looked beyond him at the vague blue mountains, on which the great grim rock WAY DOWN IN LONESOME COVE. 135 was heavily imposed, every ledge, every waving dead crisp weed, distinct. He noticed the smoke curling briskly up in the sunshine from the clay and stick chimney. He strode past her into the house, as Madeline, with all semblance of youth faded from her countenance, hag- gard and hollow-eyed in the morning light, was hurrying the corn-dodgers and veiii- son steak on the table. Perhaps he did not appreciate that the women were pining with curiosity, for he vouchsafed no word of the excitements in the little town; and he himself was ill at ease. What ails the Cunnel, Madehiny l lie asked presently, glancing up sharply from un(ler his hat brim, and speaking with his mouth full. The cat pears ter hey got her tongue, said Madeline, intending the Colonel should hear, and perhaps profit. She aint able tei talk none this mnornin. The little body cast so frowning a glance upon them as she stood in the doorway that her expression was but slightly less lowering than her fathers. It was an in- coiigruous demonstration, with liei infan- tile features, her little yellow head, amid the slight physical force she represented. She wore a blue cotton frock, fastened up the back with great horn buttons; she had on shoes laced with leather strings; one of her blue woollen stockings fell over her ankle, disclosing the pinkest of plump calves ; the other stocking was held in place by an unabashed cotton string. She had a light in her dark eyes and a color in her cheek, and albeit so slight a thing, she wielded a strong coercion. Laws-a-massy, Cunnel ! said Tobe, in a harried nianner, couldnt ye find me nowhiar? Im powerful sorry. I couldnt git back hyar no sooner. But not in this wise was she to be pla- cated. She fixed her eyes upon him, but made no sign. He suddenly rose from his half-finished breakfast. Look - a - hyar, Cun nel, lie cried, joyously, dont ye want ter ride the filly hye know ye hanker ter ride the filly. Even then she tried to frown, but the bliss of the prospect overbore her. Her cheek and chin dimpled, and there was a gurgling display of two rows of jagged little teeth as the doughty Colonel was swung to his shoulder, and lie stepped out of the door. VOL. LXXII.No. 42710 He laughed as he stood by the glossy black mare, and lifted the child to the saddle. The animal arched her neck and turned her head and gazed back at him curiously. Hold on tight, Cunnel, lie said as lie looked up at her, his face strangely softened almost beyond recog- nition. Amid she gurgled and laughed and screamed with delight as lie began to slowly lead the mare along. The Colonel hind the gift of continu- ance. Some time elapsed before she ex- hausted the joys of her exaltation. More than once she absolutely refused to dis- mount. Tobe patiently led the beast up and down, and the Colonel rode in state. It was only when the sun had grown high, and occasionally she was fain to lift her chubby hands to her eyes, imperiling her safety on the saddle, that lie ventured to seriously remonstrate, and finally she permitted herself to be assisted to the gronmid. \Vhien, with the little girl at his heels, he reached the porch, he took off his hat, and wiped the perspiration from his brow with his great brown hand. I tell ye, jouncin romid arter the Cnn- nel air powerful hot work, lie declared. The next moment lie paused. His wife had come to the door, and there was a strange expression of alarm aniong the anxious lines of her face. Tobe, she said, in a bated voice, who war them mem~ I He stared at her, whirled about, sur- veyed the vacant landscape, and once more turned dumfounded toward her. What men ? he asked. Them men ez acted so curons she said. I couldnt see thar faces plain, an I don know ~vho they war. Whar war they l And lie looked over his shoulder once more. Yander along the ledges of the big rock. Thar war two of em, hidin ahiint that thar jagged aidge. An ef yer back war turned theyd peep out at ye an the Cnn nel ridin. But whienst ye would face round agin, theyd drap down ahiint the aidge o the rock. I lowed wumist ez Id holler ter ye,but I war feared ye moughtnt keer ter know. Her voice fell in its dep- recatory cadence. He stood in silent perplexity. Ye air a fool, Madehiny, an ye never seen nuthmin. Nobody hey got enny call ter spy on me. He stepped indoors, took down his rifle from the rack, and went out frowning into the sunlight. HAHPER$ NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. 136 The suggestion of mystery angered him. He had a vague sense of impending dan- ger. As he made his way along the slope toward the great beetling crag, all his fac- ulties were on the alert. He saw naught when be stood upon its dark seamed sum- nut, and lie went cautiously to the verge and looked down at the many ledges. They jutted out at irregular intervals, the first only six feet below, and all accessible enough to an expert climber. A bush grew in a niche. An empty nest, riddled by the wind, hung dishevelled from a twig. Coarse withered grass tufted the crevices, and lichens clung. Far below he saw the depths of the Cove the tops of the leafless trees, and glimpsed through the interlacing boughs were piles of rocks, the rush of a mountain nIl, and a white flash as a sunbeam slanted on the foam. He was turning away, all incredulous, when with a sudden start he looked back. On one of the ledges was a slight depres- sion. It was filled with sand and earth. Imprinted upon it was the shape of a mans foot. The ranger paused and gazed fixedly at it. Waal,by the Lord ! he exclaimed, under his breath. Presently, But they hey no call I he argued. Then once more, softly, By the Lord The mystery baffled him. More than once that day he went up to the crag and stood and stared futilely at the foot-print. Conjecture had license and limitations too. As the hours wore on lie became harassed by the sense of espionage. He was a bold man before the foes he knew,but this idea of inimical lurking, of furtive scrutiny for unknown purposes,preyed upon him. He brooded over it as lie sat idle by the fire. Once he went to the door and stared spec- ulatively at the great profile of the cliff. The sky above it was all a lustrous amber, for the early sunset of the shortest days of the year was at hand. The mountains, seen partly above and partly below it,wore a glamourous purple. There were clouds, and from their rifts long divergent lines of light slanted down upon the valley, distinct among their shadows. The sun was not visible-only in the western hea- vens was a half-veiled effulgence too daz- zlingly white to be gazed upon. The ran- ger shaded his eyes with his hand. No motion, no sound; for the first time in his life the unutterable loneliness of the place impressed him. Madeliny, he said, suddenly, looking over his shoulder within the cabin, be you-uns sure ez they warfolks ? I don know what ye niean, she fal- tered, her eyes dilated. They looked like folks. I reckon they war, lie said, re-assur- ing himself. The Lord knows I hope they war. That night the wind rose. The stars all seemed to have burst from their moorings, and were wildly adrift i~u the sky. There was a broken tumult of billowy clouds, and the moon tossed hopelessly among them, a lunar wreck, sometimes on lien beam ends, sometimes half submerged, once more gallantly struggling to the sur- face, and again sunk. The bare boughs of the trees beat together in a dirge-like monotone. No\v and again a leaf went sibilantly whistling past. The wild com- motion of the heavens and earth was visi- ble, for the night was not dark. The man- ger, stan(hing within the rude stable of un- hewn logs, all undanbed, noted how pale were the horizontal bars of gray light al- ternating with the black logs of the wall. He was giving the mare a feed of corn but lie had not brought his lantern as was his custom. That mysterious espionage had in some sort shaken his courage, and he felt the obscurity a shield. He had brought instead his rifle. The equine form was barely visible among the glooms. Now and then, as the mare noisily munched, she lifted a hoof and struck it npon the ground with a dull thud. How the gusts outside were swirl- ing up the gorge! The pines swayed and sighed. Again the boughs of the chestnut- oak above the roof crashed together. Did a fitful blast stir the door? He lifted his eyes mechanically. A cold thrill ran through every fibre. For there, close by the door, somebodysomething~ was peering through the space betxveen the logs of the wall. The face was invis- ible, but the shape of a mans head was distinctly defined. He realized that it was no supernatural manifestation when a husky voice began to call the mare, in a hoarse whisper, Cobe! Cobe! Cobe ! With a galvanic ~art he was about to spring forward to hold the door. A hand was laid upon it. He placed the muzzle of the rifle between the logs, a jet of red light was suddenly projected into tIme darkness, the mare was rearing and plunging violently, the littlo WAY DOWN IN LONESOME COVE. 137 shanty was surcharged with roar and re- verberation, and far and wide the crags and chasms echoed the report of the rifle. There was a vague clamor outside, an oath,a cry of pain. Hasty footfalls sound- ed among the dead leaves, and died in the distance. When the ranger ventured out he saw the door of his house wide open, and the fire-light flickering out among the leafless bushes. His wife met him half-way down the hill. Air ye hurt, Tobe ? she cried. Did yer gun go off suddint? Mighty suddint, lie replied, savagely. Ye didift fire it a-purpose l she fal- tered. ~Edzactly so, lie declared. Ye never hurt nobody, did ye, Tobe l She had turned very pale. I lowed it couldnt be the wind ez I hearn a-holler- in I hopes an prays I hurt em, he said, as lie replaced the rifle in the rack. He was shaking the other hand, which had been jarred iii some ~vay by the hasty dis- charge of tim weapon. Some dad-burn- ed hiorsa-thief war arter the mare. Jedg- in from the sound o thar runnin, peared like to me ez thar mouglit be two o ~ The next day the mare disappeared from the stable. Yet she could n6t be far off, for Tobe was about the house most of the time, and ~vhien lie and the Colonel canie in-doors in the evening the little girl held in her hand a half-munched ear of corn, evidently abstracted from the mares sup- per. Wbar be the filly hid, Tobe ? Made- line asked, curiosity overpowering her. Ax me no questions an Ill tell ye no lies, lie replied, gruffly. In the morning there was a fall of snow, and she had some doubt whether her mo- ther, who had gone several days before to a neiThbor~s on the summit of the range, would return; but presently the creak of unoiled axles heralded the approach of a wagon, and soon the old woman, bundled in shawls, was sitting by the fire. She wore heavy woollen socks over her shoes as protection against the snow. The in- compatibility of the~hape of the hose with the human foot was rather marked, and as they were somewhat inelastic as well, there was a muscular struggle to get them off only exceeded by the effort which had been required to get them on. She shook her head again and again, with a red face, as she bent over the socks, but plainly more than this discomfort vexed her. Laws-a-massy, Madeliny! I beam a awful tale over yander inongst them Jen- kins folks. Ye oughiter hey married Luke Todd, an so I tole ye an fairly beset ye ter do ten year ago. He keered fur ye. An Tobeshucks! Waal, laws-a-massy, child! I beam a awful tale bout Tobe up yander at Jenkinses. Madeline colored. Folks lied better take keer how they talk bout Tobe, she said, with a touch of pride. They be powerful keerful ter do it outn rifle range. With one more mighty tug the sock came off, the red face was lifted, and Mrs. Pearce shook her head ruefully. The Bible say words air foolishness. Ye don know what ye air talkin bout, child. With this melancholy preamble she de- tailed the gossip that bad arisemi at the county town and pervaded the country- side. Madeline commented, denied, flash- ed into rage, then lapsed into silence. Although it did not constrain credulity. there was something that made hiei~ afraid when her mother said: Ye bed better not be talkin bout rifle range so brash, Madehiny, nohows. They lowed ez Luke Todd an Sam Peters kem hyartwar jes night before las aimin ter take the mare away thout no words an no lawiii, kase they didnt want ter wait. Luke lied got a chance ter view the mare, an knowed ez she war hisn. An Tobe war hid in the dark be- side the mare, an fired at em, an the rifle- ball tuk Sam right through tIme beam o his arm. I reckon, though, ez that wariit true, else ye would 1mev knowed it. She looked up anxiously over her spec- tacles at her (laughter. I beam Tobe shoot, faltered Made- line. I seen blood on the leaves. Laws-a-massy ! exclaimed tIme old wo- man, irritably. I be fairly feared ter bide Imyar; twouhdnt sprise me nomie ef they kem hyar an hauled Tobe out aim lynched him an sechm, an wimo knows wlmo muought git hurt in the scrimmage ? They both fell silent as the ranger strode in. They would need a braver Imeart than either bore to reveal to him the suspicions of horse - stealing sown broadcast over the mountain. Madeline felt that this in itself was coercive evi 138 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. dence of his innocence. Who dared so much as say a word to his face? The weight of the secret asserted itself, however. As she went about her accus- tomed tasks, all bereft of their wonted in- terest, vapid and burdensome, she carried so woe-begone a face that it caught his attention, and he demanded, angrily, What ails ye ter look so durned peak~d ? This did not abide long in his memory, however, and it cost her a pang to see him so unconscious. She went out upon the porch late that afternoon to judge of the weather. Snow was falling again. The distant summits had disappeared. The mountains near at hand loomed through the myriads of ser- ned white flakes. A crow flew across the Cove in its midst. It heavily thatched the cabin, and tufts dislodged by the open- ing of the door fell down upon her hair. Drifts lay about the porch. Each rail of the fence was laden. The ground, the rocks, were deeply covered. She reflect- ed with satisfaction that the red splotch of blood on the dead leaves was no longer visible. Then a sudden idea struck her that took her breath away. She came in, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright, with an excited dubitation. Her husband commented on the cli ange. Ye air a powerful curous ci-itter, Made- hiny, he said: a while ago ye looked some fower or five hundred year old now ye favors yerself when I fust kem a-courtin round the settlemint. She hardly knew whether the dull stir in her heart were pleasure or pain. Her eyes filled with tears, and the irradiated iris shone through them with a liquid lustre. She could not speak. Her mother took ephemeral advantage of his softening mood. Ye useter be mighty perlite and saaft-spoken in them days, Tobe, she ventured. I bed ter be, lie admitted, frankly, kase thar war sech a many o them mealy-mouthed cusses a-waitin on Made- liny. The kentry peared ter me ter bris- tle xvith Luke Todd; lie minded me brum said geever ywhar ye seen his yal- ler head, ez homely an ez onwelcome. I never wunst gin Luke a thought arter ye tuk ter comm round the settle- mint, Madeline said, softly. I wisht I hed knowed that then, he replied; else I wouldnt hey been so all- fired oneasy an beset. I wasted mo time a-studyin bout ye an Luke Todd n ye war both wuth, an went thout ray vittles an sot up a nights. Ef I bed spent that time a-moamn fur my sins an settin my soul at peace, Pd he quinn roun the throne o Grace now! Young folks air powerful fursaken fools. Somehow her heart was warmer for this allusion. She was moi-e hopeful. Her resolve grew stronger and stronger as she sat and knitted, and looked at the fire and saw among the coals all her old life at the settlement newly aglow. She was remembering now that Luke Todd had been as wax in her hands. She re- called that when she was married there was a gleeful sayin going the rounds of the mountain that he had taken to the woods with grief, and he was heard of no more for days. The gossips relished his despair as the corollary of the happy brid- al. He had had no reproaches for her. He had only looked the other ~va.y when they met, and she had not spoken to him since. He set store by my word in them days, she said, her lips vaguely moving. I misdoubts ef lie hey furgot. All through the long hours of the win- ter night she silently canvassed her plan. The house was still noiseless and dark when she softly opened the door amid soft- ly closed it behind lien. It hind ceased to snow and the sky had cleared. The trees, all the limbs whiten- ed, were drawn distinctly upon it, and through the boughs overhead a brilliant star, aloof and splendid, looked coldly down. Along the chill east Orion had drawn his glittering blade. Above the snowy mountains a melancholy waning moon was swinging. The valley was full of mist, white and shining where the light fell upon it, a vaporous purple where the shadows held sway. So still it was! the only motion in all the world the throbbing stars and her palpitating heart. So solemnly silent! It was a re- lief, as she trudged on and on, to iiote a gradual change; to watch the sky with- draw, seeming fainter; to see the moon grow filmy, like some figment of the frost; to mark the gray mist steal on apace, swathe mounrtain, valley, amid lica- yen with mystic folds, shut out all vision of things familiar. Through it only tho sense of dawn could creep. She recognized the locality; her breath was short; her step quickened. She ap 139 WAY DOWN IN LONESOME COVE. peared, like an apparition out of the mists, close to a fence, and peered through the snow-laden rails. A sudden pang pierced her heart. For there, milking the cow, she saw, all blooming in the snowherself; the azalea-like girl she had been! She had not known how dear to her was that bright young identity she re- meml)ered. She had not realized how far it had gone from her. She felt a forlorn changeling looking upon her own es- tranged estate. A faint cry escaped her. The cow, with lifted head and a mut- tered low of surprise, moved out of reach of the milker, who, half kneeling upon the ground, stared with wide blue eyes at her ghost in the mist. There was a pause. It was only a mo- ment before Madeline spoke; it seemed years, so charged it was with retrospect. I kem over hyar ter hey a word with ye she said. At the sound of a human voice Luke TodcVs wife struggled to her feet. She held the piggin with one arm encircled about it, and with the other hand she clutched the plaid shawl around her throat. Her bright hair was tossed by the rising wind. I lowed Id find ye hyar a-milkin bout now. The homely allusion re-assured the youn~er woman. I hey ter begin tolerble early, she said. Spot gins bout a gallon a milkin now. Spots calf, which subsisted on what was left over, seemed to find it cruel that de- lay should be added to his hardships, and he lifted up his voice in a plaintive re- monstrance. This reminded Mrs. Todd of his existence; she turned and let down the bars that served to exclude him. The stranger was staring at her very hard. Somehow she quailed under that look. Though it was fixed upon her in unvarying intensity, it had a strange im- personality. This woman was not seeing her, despite that wide, wistful, yearning gaze; she was thinking of something else, seeing some one else. And suddenly Luke Todds wife began to stare at the visitor very hard, and to think of something that was not before her. I be the rangers wife, said Madeline. I kern over hyar ter tell ye he never tuk yer black mare nowise but honest, be- in the ranger. She found it difficult to say more. Un- der that speculative, unseeing look she too faltered. They tell me ez Luke Todd air power- ful outed boutn it. An I howed ef he knowed from me ez twar tuk fair, hed blieve me. She hesitated. Her courage was flag- ging; her hope had fled. The eyes of the man~s wife burned upon her face. We-uns useter be tolerble well quaint- ed fore lie ever seen ye, an I lowed hed bhieve my word, Madeline continued. Another silence. The sun was rising; long liquescent lines of light of purest amber-color were streaming through the snowy woods; the shadows of the fence rails alternated with bars of dazzling ghis- ter; elu