Apparently he was not a very accurate marksman, for his missile encountered the low-hanging branch of a pine-tree and rebounded. I saw exactly where it fell in the recoil-against a boulder, projecting a few inches above the river surface-thence it fell into the water. remained motionless an instant, looking toward The man the spot where it had disappeared, then, turning, retraced his steps and walked hastily away. But I was not his only spectator. Sam, from an adjoining field, crouched in a Black corner of the fence, where he had sat down to rest after hoeing corn in the sun, assisted also; and while I, at the dinner-table, was telling Uncle all about it, Sam was already raking the river-bed with intent to fish out the pocket-book. In which intent he succeeded. Then, wiping away as much as possible of the dripping moisture, he brought the pocket-book on a folded newspaper and laid it on a window-seat in the room where we were. "Guess some mischief goin' on, Sir," said Sam. "Folks don't go round throwing away pocket-books like that for nothin'." After dinner Uncle examined it; as also Mr. Chantry and Mr. Fosbrooke. Between these two passed a significant glance. "I recognize an acquaintance, Sir," said Fosbrooke, coolly. "I know that this was in the writing-desk in my room at nine o'clock this morning." 741 little child-alone in his helplessness, who did not even turn his head at the sound-surely he would be killed! Oh, if only he might be saved! caught up the child and fell forward with him, I forgot my own danger, and rushing across dashed over the very spot where the little one and the next instant the maddened animal had been sitting. The child lifted up his voice, and several per- Aunt Graham's parlor; Uncle Graham was Miss "What is it all?" I asked. Then I remem bered. "The child is safe-oh, thank God!" They all looked at me so tenderly, they were so kind! Uncle himself, who had done with so a tear fell on my cheek. my ankle, came and kissed me, and as he did stood as well as if he said it in words-I was to In a moment it flashed through me; I underbe lame always; all my life lame. Oh, how could I endure it? If it were only "You are positive?" "Positive, Sir! Here is my writing in pen- for myself-but there were father and mother cil on the enameled tablet." both needing me so much, both already growing old, and mother far from well. I had thought It was quite plain to see. "Tell me how the man looked, Margaret," to do so much, to be such a help to them; and said Uncle. I told him. "The gentleman who sold me Bucephalus," said Fosbrooke, with a smile. "Well, no time to lose," said Uncle, and the three went out. I may as well state here that within two hours the gentleman was arrested, with his illgotten gains about his person. however, as in these more lenient days he would He did not, be very likely to do, escape trial and conviction; and various others of his misdemeanors coming now-how sorry they would feel for me! I lame school-mistress; all my life long; the should be all my life like Sarah Amidon, the my life long. I shut my eyes to hold back the words kept shaping themselves in my mind-all tears, but they would come. "Is the pain so hard to bear, Margaret?" he pitied me so much. said Uncle and he spoke so tenderly because "Not the pain, Uncle," said I through my sobs; "not that." "What then, dear?" And I told him. He was silent a moment, I think he could not to light about the same time, he passed the re-speak himself. Then: When it began to grow cool in the afternoon of that day, Aunt Graham wishing a piece of ribbon matched, I volunteered to do the errand for her. I had succeeded, and turned homeward. Half-way across the street tle child-a little, dirty, sun-burnt child. He saw before me a litwas playing in the sand, tossing it up by handfuls and laughing gleefully to see it sparkle in the sun. Then I heard the rapid clattering of hoofs, and looking up the street I saw coming fast and frantic a runaway horse. pulse was to turn and save myself. But the My first im "If it were God's will, Margaret, don't you "I will try, Uncle; I will try." No; not for nothing, because it made me thank- ful as I had never before been for the commonest blessings. I told her I was sure I should like the book, and I would keep it always; and I kissed little Willie, and then they went away. So it seemed as if the pain I had had was a little price to pay for the child's life-nay, that it would have been little had it proved as bad as Now one would have imagined, from the way they all went on with me, that it was one of the pleasantest things in the world to have a lame, helpless girl in the house. Every one was indefatigable in devices to make the time pass swift-I at first feared. ly and agreeably. I must tell you a thing that happened when I had been lying there a week or two, and my ankle was, as Uncle said, doing finely. A woman came one afternoon, leading a toddling wee thing in pink calico frock, his face shining with cleanliness, and his hair brushed to the top of his head, in one long, rolling curl from forehead to crown. He carried in his arms, hugged close against his little breast, a large book. After the first week I used to lie through the daytime on a sofa in the back parlor, and hold levees, Uncle said, like a French lady. Mr. Chantry and Mr. Fosbrooke used to come as before. They brought me books, and took so much trouble for me that I grew quite friendly with Mr. Fosbrooke. "I am very glad," said he one day, "that it was not my horse which hurt you, Miss Eliot." 'Why, I never thought it was," said I. "Didn't you?" said he, smiling. "Well, I 66 "Now speak to the lady; speak pretty; thought it was. It was the fast horse that Dr. speak, Willie," said the woman. "Pitty yady," said Willie. That's a darling. the lady." Go on, Willie; speak to "Pitty yady," reiterated Willie. He could get no farther. Graham warned me about." "Was it, indeed? and how happened it that he was not yours, if you thought he was?" "The man who sold him to me had stolen him." "And who was he ?" for I guessed who it was. "You have seen him," said he, smiling. Oh!"The same that sank the pocket-book. I did not recover the money paid for him either. Served me right though. I believe my liking for fast horses has come to a perpetual end." I was glad, for it had troubled Uncle Graham. "He wants to say, ma'am," said his mother -I had divined who she was-"that he thanks you for saving him from being run over. and I want to thank you too. If it hadn't been for you, Willie might be lying in his coffin now, buried in the ground; and I should never kiss his dear, sweet, little face again; never hear his pretty, broken words again; never hear him try to say father and mother." And here she fairly broke down; and for little Willie, over his face stole a troubled look and he put up his little red lip to cry. "Don't he cry, darling," said his mother, forcing herself to smile on him. "Give the book to the lady." But as Willie, already very red with the exertion, only held it tighter, opening his blue eyes wider and wider, she took the book from him and offered it to me herself. "We are not poor, and if we were we should want to do this just the same, my husband and I. We did not know what you would like, so we told the man to pick out what would be right, and he said you would be sure to like this. And my husband he's written a line in it to put you in mind of Willie." I opened the book, and on the fly-leaf was written this: "For the lady who saved Willie, to put her in mind that his father and mother will always be thankful to her for their child's life." While I read she whispered to Willie, who presently kneeling at his mother's knee, and folding his little brown hands, said in imperfect childish words: "God bless Willie's father and mother, and Willie. God bless lady, Amen!" And his mother repeated "Amen." "He prays it every night, ma'am," said she, "and I can't but think it will bring a blessing. And now, Willie, say good-by to the lady; we must go home." One morning Mr. Chantry brought me Froissart's Chronicles. I had heard and read of the book, but had never seen it. I little suspected that he had bought it on purpose to please me, and that he had taken great pains to get it. "I am going to K- to-morrow, Miss Margaret," said he. "Can I do something for you ?" Of course I was glad to send a letter. He would be back in three days, and I charged him with so many messages that I grew ashamed and retracted. But he said he should remember every one of them, and I do believe he did. You will think they did not let me suffer from weariness when I affirm my entire forgetfulness of the ball when the night for it came. If I had recollected it in season I should have begged Miss Rhodes to attend it. She said she should not have gone-declared that she had not the slightest wish to go. Yet I knew that she had really looked forward to it as the pleasantest part of her visit. That she so willingly relinquished it proves how truly good-natured she was. My ankle grew strong, but Uncle still forbade my using it; I must not go home a limper, he said; I must just sit still, like a good child, and read my books. Mr. Chantry returned the afternoon of the third day. He brought me letters-dear, loving letters, just as precious as gold. Aunt and Miss Rhodes had an invitation for the evening, and I persuaded them all, now that I was so well, to leave me with the new magazines which had come that day. They were gone, and Chloe had just lighted the candles and set them near me, when there came a knock at the door. 743 grandchildren, Harry and Jenny MacNeill. Loudest of all the noisy group are my two Their father answered his country's first summons in the late fearful contest, and our daugh"Shall I tell 'em the folks gone away, Miss turn, and now that the war is over he is soon ter Grace came back to live with us till his reMarget?" said Chloe. "Yes, Chloe." Still some one entered; and Chloe again brought her turban into the room a moment, and in a stage whisper "Nobody but Massa Chantry, Miss Marget." With which announcement the gentleman entered. I was glad to see him, but surprised, and presently asked: "But why are you not at Mrs. Harding's this evening?" coming home to remain. safe and well. Once, when he was in the act know, we are none the less proud of him. He had taken up a book which, without open-walk. ing it, he laid down again. "Because it is the way my father walks," "Because I had something to tell you, Mar- said Harry. garet." I listened; as he did not speak I grew troubled. Was it some bad news from home after all? But from the look that met mine my eyes sank abashed. "Do you know why I went to K, Margaret?" No," I replied. "Shall I tell you?" No answer. "I went to ask your father if I might try to win you, Margaret, for my wife. Have I been too daring?" For a kingdom I could not have spoken; my lips and my voice refused to shape a word. "Do speak to me, Margaret. have seen that I loved you." You must ging after her the skirt of a dress twice as long "Look here, Aunt Lou," called Jenny, dragas herself, "only look here! See what I found dress when she was a young lady like you. See! in a chest up garret. It used to be grandma's bright things are spangles. I wish I had seen low neck and short sleeves; and these little grandma wear it, don't you? It doesn't seem a bit as if she was ever young like you. I suppose she didn't wear her cap and spectacles then.. You didn't see her then, did you, Aunt Lou?" "No, dear." "But I saw her then," said Mrs. Thayer, the hour. clergyman's wife, who had come in to sit an "We were both young girls then, your grandmother and I, and we were visiting at your great-aunt Graham's; and this dress was made for your grandmother to wear to a ball. No, I had not dreamed of it, but I did not It was a very pretty dress too. But your grandsay so. mother did not wear it to the ball, for she did ankle the week before, so she had to lie still innot go. A horse ran over her and broke her stead of dancing." So then he took my hand and held it in a firm, gentle clasp, and he said-I can not tell you what he said, but I, for answer, only let two great, plashing tears drop directly on his hand. And then I felt myself folded closely in the safe-guard of loving arms, drawn closely to that strong, tender heart which through all the years since never failed me, never once-which bore with all my faults and imperfections as a guardian angel might-nay, has he not been that to me? It is summer. We live where we have lived mostly since our marriage—in the old Chantry homestead. The walls echo even now with the merriment of children. now than usual, for my sister Rose-Rose FosThere is more of it brooke-with her four children, is spending the summer with us. They are not going back to Jamaica, for they want their children educated at the North, and Mr. Fosbrooke has bought a home near Boston. Their first three children died in Kingston, and it is no wonder they would no longer risk exposure to that climate. est. Little Jenny's eyes expressed intense inter- "Tell me all about it, please, Aunty Thayer." So Jenny accompanies Aunty Thayer to the and two gentlemen; one is Mr. Fosbrooke, and MY SISTER MARCIA. |it the little money he had himself, and borrowed three thousand dollars, giving for it the note OU would not think it strange that an Oc- which my father indorsed. If James had me, money, paid interes lived The dark day was bright enough overhead, I remember. The sky looked deep and grand and infinite. It was full of glory, as the atmosphere was of prismatic haze, through which the distant hills rose purple and soft as if they had been the Delectable Mountains. The appletree boughs glowed with apples, scarlet as balls of fire; grapes were ripe on the vines; autumn flowers nodded along the highway; and the oak woods in the distance were touched with flame. It was just such a day as I had loved all my life; but now its splendid brightness was sadder to me than would have been the wildest blast of winter. I felt something, I think, like a deposed queen, wearing her royal robes to grace the triumph of her conqueror. For what would October be to me any more when a stranger's foot had crossed the sill and I should be no longer at Ingleside ? To a person who had a smaller organ of locality my grief might have seemed exaggerated and unreasonable; though even such a one could hardly have thought it a trifle for my father to pass from the comfortable position of a well-todo farmer, whose crops made him independent, to that of a laborer in other men's fields, housing his family where he could. But there are those who will understand that the poverty was not the hardest to any of us—the bitterest pang was in parting with the old acres which had been ours so long. principal, and all would have gone well. But he died suddenly, with no time to arrange his affairs, or even to see Marcia. Before we had heard of his illness the tidings came that he was dead. Then his business was closed up, hurriedly and unwisely, as it almost always is in such cases, and only enough accrued from it to pay one thousand dollars of his debt. The firm from whom he had borrowed the money-a law firm known as Hope and Goodell-of course came down upon my father for the rest. We had no rich friends from whom to seek assistance, and not much time. Without doubt, by making proper effort, the money could have been borrowed, and the farm mortgaged as security; but my father was one of those men who give up easily. He thought trying useless; and so, on the morrow, our home was to be sold. We considered it worth five thousand dollars; but things very seldom bring their full value under the hammer. At any rate, it was going to pass from our hands-this home we had all loved so well-and I felt as if my heart would break, as I sat there alone in the arbor and sobbed out my unreasoning despair. After a while I got up and went all round the place—a sad pilgrimage. To the old chestnut-tree, to the little pine grove on the hill, to the nook where I had always found the first violets, to grape-vine, and orchard—but I picked no grape, gathered no apple. My heart and my step were heavy. I have a cat-like clinging to places by nature, and this one place had been all the world to me so long. My grandfather had owned it first, and left it when he died to my father. And father and mother had lived there all their married life. We girls had been born there, and we had never been long at a time out of sight of those two red chimneys. And now-where should we go? I think Hagar scarcely felt more desolate when she turned from the familiar tent door and w.nt on toward the desert. I had been busy all day, going about the house, and helping my mother to put things in order, and deciding what we would sell and what keep, to furnish a new refuge for ourselves somewhere. Marcia-she was my older sisterhad not been out of her room that day. We called her when dinner was ready, but she an- Going into the house I met Marcia, who had swered that she did not want any, and we had come down stairs at last. She was in her deep not disturbed her any more. I had been will-mourning for James. I believe I had been feeling enough to do all that was required. It helped to pass the time away, and left me the less in which to think. When every thing was done I went out of doors, and sat down in the old arbor, in the midst of the garden, and bowed my head for the waves of trouble to go over me; wishing vaguely, with a girlish despair, that they would strand me on the desolate shore of death. We had suffered a great misfortune, and yet one for which we could blame no one. It had seemed to come, as the coroners say, by the visitation of God. My father had indorsed a note for James Harris, my sister Marcia's lover. James was young and poor, and there was an excellent opening for him to go into business. He put into ing hard toward her before, as if she were in some wise accountable for the loss that was turning my father and mother out of their life-long shelter. But I was moved with sorrowful compunction when I saw her white, still face, whose pallor her black robes heightened. "I suppose you will almost hate me, Theo," she said in a hopeless, despairing tone. "I know it seems to you as if I had done it." My heart melted, and I tried to comfort her. And uttering such words of soothing as I could, a new thought struck me. The sale was not to take place until the next afternoon; and that would give me time to go into town in the morning, and make a personal appeal to Messrs. Hope and Goodell. A wild fancy that I might effect something in my father's behalf took pos- | to that as much as any thing in the impression session of me. If they would only be content I hoped to make. But my slumbers were trou to let us keep our home, and pay up the borrowed money, in course of time, by installments! To do that, I thought we could live almost on air-make any sacrifices, no matter how great-surely we could pay up two thousand dollars in a few years. But would they wait? I talked over the plan with Marcia, and she became as eager about it as I was. It was the first time I had seen a single gleam of light in her face since the news of James's death had blanched the youth and hope out of it. As we sat at the window discussing the matter, we saw father and mother go out together in the sunset. They were not a very demonstrative couple usually, though we knew that their love was deep and true. But now they went hand in hand, clinging to each other the more the sorer trouble pressed them. We could see them going slowly over the same round that I had taken before-lingering a little in cach well-known, well-loved spot. I had been thinking it so hard for me to part with Ingleside; but now I felt ashamed that I had thought of myself at all, when I realized how much more bitter it was for them. I looked up at Marcia. Her tears were falling fast, and she was wringing her hands with a passionate gesture. bled. I kept dreaming about going away from Ingleside. I don't know how many times I lived the parting scene over that night, watched my mother's grief, my father's pitiful despair, Marcia's self-reproach for what was not in the least her fault. Once I dreamed that she killed herself; and when the time came to go we found her lying cold and stark, deaf to the voices which called her. From that dream I awoke, shaking with aguish terror. I stole out of bed, and across the passage to her room-for we did not sleep together, as sisters usually do in the country. I was afraid to go to her in the darkness, the impression of my dream was so strong upon me; so I stood in the door and called her name softly—“ Marcia.” "You are awake, it seems. May I come in and stay with you? I am so lonesome, and I dream such miserable things." "Yes, come. You won't disturb me;" and she made room for me, and I crept in close to her, and lay there till morning. She did not talk to me at all; but though I drowsed a little I had a consciousness all the time that she was awake, alert, suffering. At last morning came. I looked somewhat pale from my restless night, but I dressed myself for my journey as becomingly as I could, and tried to have faith in myself and the success of my mission. It was only an hour's car-ride, and then I found my way to the office of Hope and Goodell. "Oh, Theo!" she cried, "ever since James died I have longed so to lie down in his low grave beside him; but I never wanted to so much as now. How can I bear it to see them leave their home?" And then she bowed her head on the window-ledge, as if she had forgot-It was ten o'clock-I thought I should see them ten my presence, and wailed out, "Oh, why didn't you take me with you, my love! my love!" before the busiest part of their day. I knocked on the door where their names were painted, and a lank boy, with light, straight hair, and a I had not understood my sister hitherto quill behind his large, pale ear, opened it. I had not known how intense her quiet-seeming nature was. This trouble, so hard to bear, was revealing us to each other. I tried to comfort her, and talked to her again of my new plan, till she grew feverish in her excitement about it. noticed, with that curiously minute observation which sometimes seems so ludicrous in great crises, how large the checks of his pantaloons were; and wondered whether such a fashion was characteristic of lank boys, or of the legal profession. I asked if I could see Mr. Hope or Mr. Goodell. Mr. Goodell was out, he said, but I could see Mr. Hope, if I would wait a few moments. Then he asked my name, and I gave After a while father and mother came in, and I talked about it to them. Father smiled pen-him a card with it written on it-"Miss Theosively. He had a face which those who loved dora Hall of Bylands”—and then I followed him him less than we did might have called weak; | into an ante-room, and sat down to wait. A but there was a womanish sweetness and tender-number of men passed in and out, each one beness in it—a womanish despondency, too, just stowing on me an inquisitive stare; and at last, then. after perhaps half an hour, I was told that Mr. Hope was at liberty, and the lank youth conducted me into his private office. "I don't think it will do any good, Theo," he said; "still you may go. It's no harm to try; only I think luck's against us." Yet I thought the plan cheered him a littleit was something to speculate over, vain as it seemed. I knew he would have just a little glimmer of hope until I should come back with my sentence of yea or nay. I tried hard to sleep that night-loss of rest always told on me, and I wanted to look my best next day. I was pretty, and I confess I trusted VOL. XXXIII.-No. 198.-3 D Mr. Hope looked at me before he spoke, and I looked at him. I saw in him a canny Scotchman, not handsome or elegant, but with something about him which pleased me at the very first. He had a broad, open forehead, without overmuch ideality, but full of sense and strength; a straight, resolute nose; rather high cheek bones; clear, light-blue eyes; sandy beard and hair; and lips that knew how to close firmly |