"Yes?" with a note of interrogation.
"In which direction would it lead us, if we should take it now?"
"To the parsonage, eventually, but," hesitatingly, "by a much longer way than by the path through the hedge."
"The longer, the better—for me."
"I don't know what they will think has become of us," she demurred.
Farr laughed easily.
"I never trouble myself too much about what people think."
"I don't doubt that you are in no way different from the rest of your sex. I believe it is generally conceded that selfishness is its salient characteristic."
"A popular fallacy. Do I not prove it to you, Miss Jean?"
"Oh, of course you are the exception that proves the rule," she returned with gentle sarcasm.
He stopped suddenly, midway in the path they were traversing, and looked straight down at her. There was a ring of deeper feeling in his voice as he spoke:
"I want you to think just as well of me as you can, and I cannot imagine having a more earnest desire than that I might always prove worthy of your kindest thoughts."
There was a tinge of defiance in Jean's manner as she answered him flippantly:
"Don't you think I would be using my time rather aimlessly, Mr. Farr, were I to give it up to thoughts of you?"
An expression of keen displeasure crossed Farr's face.
"I beg your pardon," he said stiffly.
Instantly Jean repented of her foolish words, and was heartily sorry to have wounded her companion, but the slight tremor at her heart warned her that to confess would be unwise.
"I think of you quite as much as you deserve," sheventured with a nervous little laugh, and she began to walk on toward the shrubbery at a brisker pace.
Farr made no immediate rejoinder, and when he spoke again it was in an altered tone.
"There is quite a fragrance to this box-wood, is there not?"
"Yes, indeed, and a very pleasant one. The perfume is heavy these warm nights after the sun has been shining on it all day."
"You have no idea what a charm the country has for me. I have really been in it so little since I was a boy."
"But your home is in the country, is it not?"
"Yes, but my family spend the winters in Washington, and our country home is only open during the summer months. I don't often get a chance to go down there. My mother keeps the house pretty well filled, for my two married brothers live at home."
"And have you no sisters?"
Farr's voice, which had sounded a little cold when speaking of his home, changed to sudden tenderness.
"Yes, one, and she is the dearest little girl in the world."
"I suppose you love her dearly, and do your best to spoil her?"
"Well, Clarisse and I are certainly great chums," he assented.
"How nice it must be to have an older brother. We girls have always regretted so that we did not have one, although," with a sad little sigh, "we used to have a dear old friend who was just as good as a brother; but he has gone away now."
"I suppose that there are times when they are of some use," said Farr, "although men are so hopelessly selfish."
"I would not think of contradicting you," Jean laughingly averred. "Come, we are talking a great deal, and not making much headway, and it must be growing late."
"I am all tangled up in this maze of by-paths. In which direction is the parsonage from here?"
"If you don't mind climbing a stone wall, we can turn to our right, and take a short cut, and we will be there in no time."
Farr agreed, and they walked on in silence until they had emerged from the shrubbery into a small clearing, skirted on the further side by a wall, its line broken at a certain point where some stones had been thrown down. Farr sprang lightly across, and turned back to assist Jean. Just then the moon, which had slipped under a cloud, shone out again, its soft rays falling directly on the girl's face. She had one foot already on the first stepping stone when he put up his hand to stay her.
"Well," she asked, as he did not speak. "What is it? Are you not going to help me?"
"Of course I am, but," leaning a little toward her, "this wall is a sort of a Rubicon. Once crossed we cannot go back, for we are then in the parsonage grounds. It has been a pleasant walk, and one to be remembered, has it not?"
"Yes," she murmured, with a quick indrawing of her breath.
"I wish——" he began impetuously.
"Mr. Farr," she interposed with gentle decision, "will you please help me over."
He gave her his hand, and gravely assisted her to the ground on the other side.
They were nearing the porch, and already the sounds of gay voices reached them through the stillness of the summer night, when Jean turned abruptly to the man at her side.
"By the way, Mr. Farr, we are to have a visitor shortly, and I hope you men will help us to make it pleasant for her."
He uttered some polite commonplace, and Jean went on:
"Perhaps you know Helen's friend, a Miss Stuart of New York."
A sudden recollection flashed through Farr's mind.
"Not one chance in a thousand that it should be the same," he thought, as he answered indifferently, "I think not."
"I thought possibly you might have met," she said carelessly. "She seems to know almost everyone."
He half turned to put a question to her, but already they were at the vine-covered porch, and Nan's jolly greeting lost him the opportunity.
Into the days that followed were crowded more gay doings than the quiet village of Hetherford had ever seen before. Old Dr. Birdsall shook his head disapprovingly over all this unseemly frivolity, but Aunt Helen's gentle voice championed the young folks, and persuaded him to allow Nan to join in the good times. The naval officers were in constant demand whenever they were not on duty, and at the end of the week the other men came out from town, and their advent was the signal for a series of rides, drives, walks, tennis matches, and amusements of every description.
Emily pronounced herself perfectly satisfied, and when Nan and Mollie grumbled over a few of the changes that had followed in the train of all these merry-makings, she declared them heretics and disdainfully turned her back upon them.
It was after a day on theVortexthat Eleanor, Nan, and Mollie sat together in Eleanor's box of a room in the inn, and held a council of war.
They had had a beautiful sail. There was a "smoky sou'wester" blowing, and Uncle Sam's schooner, decked in holiday attire, had flown before the wind like a bird. Captain Dodd proved a genial, pleasant host, and Mrs. Dodd's heart had been quitewon by Helen's notice of her three-year-old boy, a jolly little chap, whose tow-colored hair showed in strange contrast to his sunburned face. No stone had been left unturned to make the day successful, and as the girls were all good sailors, the stiff breeze and careening of the boat only added zest to their enjoyment.
However, nothing in this world is quite perfect. Nan and Mollie scowled at the general tendency to wander off in pairs. Mollie termed it bad form, while Nan sniffed, and called it utterly ridiculous. Finally Nan was roused to action. She called to Jean, who, with Farr at her side, was leaning against the rail well up forward, and demanded a recitation. Jean complied somewhat reluctantly. She stood in the midst of the little group, one hand holding fast to the companion-way to steady herself, the other tucked away down into the pocket of her reefer. She hesitated a moment, searching about in her mind. Her choice at length fell upon one, dearly loved by all the girls, called "Sister Felicité."
The beautiful lines were spoken with the greatest simplicity, but there was a depth of pathos in the girl's low voice that went straight to the hearts of her hearers. The short silence that followed her last words was more flattering in its import than would have been the loudest applause. There was a slight pallor in the girl's face when she had finished, and during the rest of the afternoon she was very subdued; and Farr, who had been deeply impressed by her rendering of this sad and beautiful poem, seemed to share her mood.
Nan, and Mollie, who were both a little rebellious at the turn affairs were taking, noticed this incident, and so the council of war had been called. Nan's conscience was quite clear, and she plunged bluntly into the conversation.
"Now that Jean has turned sentimental and emotional, I think it is high time for us to take matters in hand. Em always has been a backslider from the compact, but when Jean begins that sort of thing it is going a little too far."
"Punning is sadly out of place, Nan, on such a serious subject," laughed Eleanor, not sorry for an excuse to interrupt the discussion.
Nan was thoroughly in earnest, and beyond a chuckle at her own discomfiture, she took no notice of Eleanor's frivolity.
"I don't think love affairs are much fun, anyway," sighed Mollie. "Surely Helen's was miserable, and only resulted in making everybody unhappy and uncomfortable."
"That strikes me as a trifle pessimistic, Moll," said Eleanor. "Happy marriages may be rare, but it can't be denied that they exist."
"Oh! dearie me," groaned Nan, "when you talk like that you make me feel as if the world were turning upside down. I never dreamed of it being a question of love affairs, and marriages."
"I was not referring to anyone in particular," Eleanor protested hastily, "we were merely arguing in an abstract way. Weren't we, Moll?"
"All I meant was," Nan went on in a dolorous voice, "that we have lost our originality when we beginto act just like other girls—flirting, and all that sort of rot. We used to have fun in the good old days when we all staid together. There were never any discussions as to how we should walk or drive for everybody was willing to go with everybody else.Tête-à-têteswere unheard of, and nobody was ever silly."
Mollie's sentiments chimed in with Nan, but Eleanor's assent was somewhat slower in coming.
"I suppose it is only a question of time," she said, "for theVortexcan't be here much longer, and Mr. Churchill always takes theSylphback to town in September. Then we can settle down, and have a good old-fashioned time during 'the autumn.'"
"When will Cliff go?" Nan asked, with a sly laugh.
Eleanor turned her head away to hide the tell-tale color that rose in her face.
"Oh! come, Nancy, your imagination is running away with you. Nothing will satisfy you short of the banishment of the sex."
"Qui s'excuse, s'accuse," quoted Mollie in an undertone.
Eleanor laughed in spite of herself. She pushed back her chair, and crossed to the open window. Along the dusty highroad Cliff came sauntering. When he was just in front of the inn he looked up, and caught sight of Eleanor. He raised his hat, and called out to her to come down, and go for a stroll before supper. She gave him a curt refusal, and turned back into the room.
"You shouldn't punish Cliff for my impertinence," reproved Nan. "It was not his fault."
Eleanor frowned and spoke impatiently:
"Cliff is only a boy, and a rather foolish one at that. But to continue. All this nonsense, as you call it, Nan, will be of brief duration, and my advice is to make the best of it."
"There is a worse time coming," Mollie declared. "TheVortexhas wrought changes enough, but I don't suppose we will recognize the old place at all when the magnificent Miss Stuart arrives."
"Sufficient unto the day," said Nan. "Well, good-by, girls I must be off."
When the door had closed upon her two friends, Eleanor went back to the window, and leaning against the casement, looked abstractedly out. She thought of Cliff, and the disappointed look his face had worn when she spoke to him so rudely. Certainly Cliff had come under the spell that was over them all this eventful summer. She had striven to deter him, but in spite of her best efforts, he had found a moment in which to tell her of his love. To this she had lent the coldest ear, holding out to him no hope whatever. Cliff had listened very patiently, but there was something in his quiet refusal to accept this answer as final that had made Eleanor, woman of the world as she was, feel singularly helpless. They had taken up life again just where they had left it before Cliff spoke, and since then no reference had been made to the matter.
The smile had quite died out of Eleanor'sface. She went over to her writing table and picked up a little note which Cliff had written her on some trifling matter. She looked at it for a moment, then half raised it to her lips. With a shame-faced laugh she dropped it back among the letters on her table and turned impatiently away.
One sultry morning toward the end of July, as Helen sat sewing on the upper balcony, a maid came out through the French window with a small tray in her hand, on which lay a yellow envelope. Helen leaned forward and picked up the telegram.
"Thank you, Susie. Is the boy waiting?"
"Yes, Miss."
"Well, you may go. I will bring the answer down myself when I have it ready."
When the maid had withdrawn Helen tore open the envelope. The message read thus: "Can you come to town for the night? Want to see you. Please don't disappoint. L. S."
Helen read it through twice.
"Oh I should love to go," she thought. "I wonder if Auntie or the girls would object."
She folded the telegram and fitted it into the envelope, and then sat looking absent-mindedly at the address, the while her face wore a puzzled look. Her indecision lasted for an instant only, and then she sprang up and ran through the hall-way to Mrs. Dennis' room.
Aunt Helen met her request with a ready consent,and in a moment the little boy was riding off to the station with Helen's answer carefully stowed away in the pocket of his coat.
As Helen entered her room a glance at the clock told her that a little celerity would enable her to catch the twelve forty-five express, and she went to work with a will to collect her traps. She was in the midst of packing when a knock came at the door, and Jean, without waiting for permission, entered. She looked around the disordered room with a questioning glance.
"What is the matter?" she asked.
Her sister answered from the depths of her closet:
"I am going to town unexpectedly, and you are just the girl I want to see, Jeanie, for I have a lot of things to say to you before I leave."
"Where are you going to stay?"
"With Lillian."
Jean's face fell, and she spoke coldly.
"What train do you take?"
"The twelve forty-five, and I haven't a moment to spare. It must be noon now."
"It is. The village clock struck as I came in."
"Oh, dear! Put those things in the valise, Jean, won't you, while I hunt for my hat and gloves. The carriage will be at the door in five minutes."
Jean complied, and, as she was making room for the last few articles in the already crowded valise, Helen came and stood beside her.
"Dearie," she said, as she drew on her gloves, "will you please be very attentive to Aunt Helen while I amaway, and not leave her too much alone? And, oh, Jean, do look after the children. Don't have them off your mind for a moment. I am always so afraid that something will happen to them when I am not here."
Jean laughed cheerily.
"That is nonsense, Helen. Why in the world should you worry? Of course I will look after them."
"I know you always do, dear; only I wanted to remind you."
"Well, you need not be anxious. When will you return?"
"To-morrow, I think. You might have the carriage meet the afternoon express. Now I must fly."
Jean caught up the valise, and carried it downstairs, while her sister went to say good-by to Mrs. Dennis.
The carriage was already at the door when Helen came out on the veranda. She stopped a moment to kiss the boys and charge them to be good, and caught Gladys up in her arms.
"Do you want to go to the station with sister?"
"Course I do," enthusiastically.
Helen put the child in the carriage, and then stepped in beside her.
"Is my valise in, Jean?"
"Yes, dear. Good-by, and have a good time."
"I will," replied Helen, as Nathalie took her place on the front seat and gathered up the reins. "Remember, Jean, you have the entire responsibility of the children, and do not let Gladys out of your sight."
Jean nodded smilingly, and stood on the steps and watched the carriage until a turn in the road bid it from view.
Then, as she slowly made her way into the house, the light died out of her face, and involuntarily she sighed.
"I wish I did not distrust Lillian Stuart as I do," she thought. "It is so unfounded—as yet."
Early that same afternoon Eleanor and Nan dropped in at the manor and suggested a game of tennis. The Lawrences acquiesced, and after a search for balls and rackets they wandered down to the courts. Jean stopped behind for a moment to find the children and tell them to follow her, for nurse had begged a holiday and had gone off for the afternoon. The sun's hot rays beat down upon the unshaded courts, discouraging even Nan's enthusiasm; so, after one set played with flagging energy, they threw down their rackets and retired to a pretty little summerhouse, just at the foot of the terrace. By and by, when they were cool again, Eleanor arose and suggested that they should stroll down toward the station to meet Cliff and Dick, who were coming up early. Jean alone demurred. It was sweet and peaceful within the shelter of the little summerhouse, and the prospect of a long hot walk along the dusty road was not tempting. Most opportunely she remembered Helen's injunction in regard to the children, and pleading this excuse she sent the others off with a half-promise that she might join them at the inn later, if nurse should get home in good season.
When Jean was alone, she leaned back in her comfortablecorner with an air of great contentment. She rested her elbow on the ledge of the seat, and propping her chin in her hand gazed dreamily, unseeingly out across the sunlit lawn. The children were playing under the shade of a widespreading elm, and the clear treble of their young voices was a pleasant accompaniment to her happy thoughts. Now and again, as some look or gesture of Farr's recurred to her with peculiar distinctness, a shy and tremulous joy dawned in her face, and lingered there.
Ah, Jean, such moments are indeed golden, when in your dreams all life seems sweet and fair. Do not hasten the inevitable awakening, for with the realization comes ever a sting to make the heart ache and throb. In after days this peaceful scene will live with you, the memory of its happiness haunt and mock you, until you fain would thrust it from you!
Meanwhile Valentine Farr was making his way down the terraced pathway in search of Jean, his heart strangely stirred with the thought of the sweet voice that would speak to him, of the pair of blue eyes that would welcome him. Then, as he walked blithely on, there fell on him the shadow of a memory fraught with pain. He threw back his head and drew a deep breath, as he squarely faced the difficulties that lay before him. He knew that before he might dare to hope, before he might dare to speak to Jean, there was much that must be told her, and although his heart grew heavy within him, the look of resolution on his grave face betokened a strong determination to overcome all obstacles so far as lay within his power.
He was descending the last terrace when little Gladysran out from her shady playground and, holding out her arms to him, begged for a ride. He caught her up and swinging her on to his shoulder held her there securely as he hastened on toward the summerhouse, whence he had seen a flutter of Jean's white gown. Gladys was wild with excitement, and her shrill little cries of pleasure roused Jean from her reverie. She shifted her position a little to see what was going on, and then started up and moved forward to the arched doorway of the summerhouse and stood waiting for them. From her elevated position, Gladys waved frantically to her and then flung her arms tightly around Farr's neck.
"That is hot work, little one," he declared with a laugh, as he deposited the child on the ground and raised his hat to Jean.
"Oh, it was grand!" cried Gladys, capering around and shaking her golden curls into a tangled mass.
Jean smiled and extended her hand to Farr, but her words were for Gladys.
"I have not a doubt of it, darling," she said, "but I fear Mr. Farr found you a very heavy load to carry this hot day."
Gladys' head drooped, and she gave Farr a shy glance from out of the corners of her eyes.
"Was I vewy heavy?" she asked, in such a plaintive little voice that he had hard work to keep his face straight as he hastened to reassure her.
"Is not this a sylvan retreat, and are you not glad you came?" Jean queried, looking over her shoulder at him as she led the way into the summerhouse.
"Glad!" he echoed. "Glad does not begin to express it."
"Wait until you see how sleepy and stupid I am before you make such a rash assertion. Evidently you are in no way disheartened," she added, as Farr, looking somewhat incredulous, took his place beside her on the low seat.
"Not one whit," he replied softly. "It would be a very novel experience for me to find you stupid."
Jean turned a quizzical glance upon him.
"What an extravagant compliment. Where did you learn such gallantry?"
"When first I saw you," he returned, and although he spoke lightly there was an undercurrent of earnestness in his tone.
Gladys, who had been chasing a butterfly around and around the summerhouse, now stopped at the doorway and peeped in. She lingered a moment, tilting her head, first on one side and then on the other, and smiling encouragingly on the twain. Then, as neither Jean nor Farr took any notice of her, she twisted about and scampered off toward the playground. Larry and Willie hailed her with delight, and anyone watching the three little heads so close together would have known that there was mischief brewing.
"I know some splendid fun," Willie was saying in a cautiously lowered voice. "I read lots about it in a book. It's all about flyin' machines an' human birds. Let's go over to the orchard, an' I'll tell you how to play it."
"Me, too, Willie, please," piped Gladys.
"Oh, yes. You can come along, 'cause you're just the person we might want," and Willie's air of importance was most impressive.
"I guess Jean won't mind," said Larry.
Willie was far too excited to vouchsafe a reply, and the children scurried along toward the orchard. Their route lay past the summerhouse, and when they were opposite it some pin-prick of conscience made them pause and look within. Jean and Farr were deeply absorbed in conversation, and it was quite apparent, even to their childish minds, that their sister would never notice their absence. Of one accord they broke into a run, and did not subside into a more demure pace until the shrubbery hid them from view.
"You see," said Willie, when he had recovered his breath, "it is the greatest fun to play birds. All we've got to do is to use our arms right, an' then we can fly good enough. It said so in the book," he ended with a wise little nod of his head.
Gladys' eyes grew big with wonder.
"Can I fly, too?" she pleaded.
"Course you can. You're just the most principal."
Gladys beamed upon him, and her face wore a proud smile. To have Willie call her "the most principal" was a very deep and far-reaching compliment.
Willie heaved a sigh of relief when, after scrambling over the stone wall, they were at last within the orchard.
"Now, nobody can find us. We've all got to learn to fly. See, Larry, you just flop your arms so. They've got to be our wings."
"Don't guess I'se got any wings," sighed Gladys, "'cause they don't f'y me a bit."
Willie and Larry were racing around the orchard, swinging their arms in the air until they looked like animated wind-mills. Gladys trotted after them, striving to imitate their motions until her little legs and arms grew very weary. Then she stopped and stood watching them disconsolately.
"I don't fink you games any fun at all," she exclaimed, in an aggrieved tone, as the boys ran up to her puffing and panting from their exertions. "You don't f'y a bit like birdies, any more nor I do."
Willie eyed her with great scorn.
"Oh, you're only a baby. Course you can't do anything."
"You said I was most principal," Gladys reminded him, with quivering lips.
"Oh, I say," Larry broke in, "I'll tell you what we'll do, Will. We'll play she's a baby bird, an' then we'll teach her to fly. We must put her up in a tree, an' then pretend to shove her out of the nest, just the way the mamma bird does."
Gladys' face brightened, and she smiled sunnily.
"P'r'aps," objected tender-hearted Willie, "she might tumble herself an' break her wings."
Larry scouted the idea.
"You're a regular muff, Will. Gladys ain't afraid; are you, Gladys?"
"Course I aren't," cried Gladys stoutly.
After an exciting and somewhat heated discussion, the boys finally arrived at a satisfactory decision as to the best way of getting Gladys up into a tree, and, inthe midst of much chaffing and some wrangling, a rustic bench was drawn to the foot of a gnarled old apple tree, and the difficult task was begun. "Oh, dear!" ejaculated Willie, very red and very warm, "She's a terrible heavy bird."
They were in a perilous position, and Gladys' burst of laughter nearly brought them all to the ground.
"Guess I eated too many worms," she said.
When at last she was safely perched on a projecting branch, Willie clambered down and drew away the bench, and Larry, sitting astride another branch, assumed the rôle of master of ceremonies.
"Now, little bird," he said authoritatively, "I ain't goin' to bring you any more worms to eat, an' you just got to learn to fly yourself. You must flap your wings like this, an' when I count three you must fly away."
Gladys' first attempt to follow these instructions nearly upset her, but she regained her balance and gripping tight hold of an overhanging limb turned a troubled face toward her brother.
"I guess my wings is gwowed w'ong."
"Cause there ain't any feathers on 'em, I s'pose," giggled Larry.
This sally proved too much for Gladys, and flinging back her head she burst into a merry peal of laughter. In her sudden movement her little hands lost their hold on the limb, and plunging forward she fell heavily to the ground. One sharp cry and then the child lay still and silent, her little white face upturned.
"Oh!" gasped Willie, "p'r'aps she's broke her wings."
Larry slipped quickly down from the tree, and leaned anxiously over his little sister's prostrate form.
"Get up, Gladys," he pleaded, and then, as the child did not stir, he began to cry piteously.
For an instant Willie stood irresolute, his hands tightly clinched, his ruddy face grown pale with fear.
"I'm going to find Jean," he said, and turned and started on a run toward the shrubbery.
Larry caught hold of him and clung to him in an agony of fear.
"I'm awfully scared, Willie. Please don't leave me."
Willie shook him off impatiently, and pointed a reproachful finger to where Gladys lay in an unnatural stillness, and then, without another word, he was gone.
During all this time Jean had not once thought of the children, and Helen's injunctions had been completely forgotten. While Farr was waiting an opportunity to broach the subject that was uppermost in his mind, Jean herself opened the way for him. She had been telling him in her happiest vein of numberless incidents of her childish days; laughing outright at the memory of many a scrape and frolic, and speaking with a pathetic quiver in her voice as she showed him the reverse side of the picture, recalling those dreary days when to the poor little orphaned Lawrences, in their desolation, it seemed that the light of their lives had been forever darkened.
As Farr listened to the innocent recital, told inJean's own forceful dramatic way, he found his heart growing very tender, yet sad withal. It made him feel infinitely far away from her to hear her speak thus lovingly and trustfully of her family. Ah, yes, love was indeed the keynote of life at the manor. Farr had never realized this more strongly than he did to-day as he mentally contrasted the happy atmosphere, the tender relationships of Jean's home life, with his own unloved, unhappy boyhood. So deep was he in thought that he did not notice that Jean had ceased speaking, until she turned and called him by name.
"Mr. Farr, I have been very egotistical and I want you to do me a great favor to prove that you have forgiven me."
"I would find it hard to refuse you."
"Do you remember that day down on the cliffs, so long ago?"
Farr signified his assent, and she continued:
"Well, that day you said that perhaps sometime you would tell me something of your life."
Farr's face flushed with gratification, and he would have spoken but she stopped him almost imperiously.
"I have thought that your 'perhaps' signified a great deal; that it was put in to save yourself in case, on further acquaintance with me, you felt that you did not want to give me your confidence, and I confess," looking up at him with a reproachful smile, "that I have been not a little hurt by your silence."
"Please don't say that, Miss Jean; and do you know that, strangely enough, I came here to-day to tell you—totell you that miserable story, but I scarcely knew how to begin it."
He paused a moment, and then resumed bitterly:
"I never knew half how miserable the story would sound to you until I listened to you this afternoon, and realized all that I had missed out of my life."
Jean looked at him sympathetically, and her eyes urged him to continue, although she did not speak.
"I am going to try not to bore you with any complaints, Miss Jean, and I must beg you not to be distressed if I speak plainly in regard to my family, with whom I am on exceedingly bad terms."
"Surely that does not include Clarisse?"
"Oh, no; not Clarisse, bless her heart. She and I have always stood faithfully by each other. My troubles began when my father died. I was quite a little chap at the time, but I loved my poor old governor dearly. My mother is a woman of great strength of character and with an unbounded love of power, and she and I were decidedly antagonistic. My father, who was the mildest of men, had the greatest admiration for her and in most things yielded readily to her stronger will, but where I was concerned he took a firm stand; so, although I was in great awe of my mother, I always had a refuge in my father. My older brothers, Lansing and Fred, never took to me at all. They were wise in their day and generation, and even when they were youngsters studied to please, and so in our quarrels and disputes my mother invariably took their part. I felt the injustice without being able to reason about it, and grew daily more surly and defiant. From the day my father died I had a verybad time of it, and was always in disgrace. I know I was by no means blameless, but there was something in my mother's cold disregard of me that roused a very demon of defiance in me. Clarisse was the only person in the world whom I honestly loved, and the first serious trouble with my mother was on her account," and even at this day Farr's face grew black at the remembrance. "It was a rainy day, and we children were all playing in the nursery. Clarisse was just recovering from an illness, and was not yet very strong. In some way she accidentally broke a new boat of Fred's. He was angry and, after scolding her until she began to cry, finally struck her across the face. I sprang toward him, my blind rage lending me unusual strength, and beat him unmercifully. Lansing, nurse, and Clarisse set up a great hue and cry, and in the midst of it all my mother walked into the room. Fred, who certainly did present a rather battered appearance, rushed to her and bawled out a garbled version of the affair and I slunk off into a corner, looking thoroughly guilty, I have not a doubt. My mother did not wait for any explanation, but summarily sent Clarisse and myself to Coventry. I might have forgiven her for the injustice to myself. I was so used to it as to have hardly noticed it, but I never forgave the unkindness to poor little Clarisse."
There was a brief silence, broken at length by Jean.
"I cannot understand it, Mr. Farr; surely a mother must love all her children."
"I suppose my mother did in her way. I do not tell you this, Miss Jean, to prejudice you against her nor to exonerate myself, but only to, in a measure,explain subsequent events. There was never any sympathy between us. My manner, my character, my very looks were distasteful to her, and she made no attempt to conceal this from me. Up to the time of this occurrence I had had moments of feeling very contrite, when I had striven to overcome my faults; but from that time I hardened myself and never tried to break down the barrier that had been raised. Clarisse shared my feeling to a great extent, but she was far too gentle and loving to oppose my mother. She did her best to soften me and to prevent circumstances from embittering me. As I grew older my relationship with my family became more and more strained, and it was my great ambition to enter the navy and cut adrift from my home. When finally I broached the subject to my mother, I learned for the first time that my father had left his entire estate, which was a considerable one, to my mother, and that I was entirely dependent upon her. My mother was exceedingly generous in those matters, and in justice to her I must say that, however much she may have denied me her affection, she always treated me most liberally in a material way. I had been given every advantage without stint, and had been brought up in the greatest comfort and luxury, and without any adequate knowledge of the value of money. She did not favor the idea of my entering the navy, but I was troublesome at home, so she made a concession and I was allowed to go to Annapolis. In the meantime my brothers had obediently followed the careers my mother had marked out for them, and having furthermore married in accordance with her wishes, she provided each of themwith a most liberal allowance, retaining, however, a controlling hand in their affairs. Those years at Annapolis were the happiest I had ever known. I had been very much touched by my mother's yielding, and when I was at home I did my best not to annoy or antagonize her in any way, and we really got along very smoothly."
Farr had reached a difficult point in his story, and hesitated a moment to mentally review the past, and then began again in the same quiet voice that had characterized his telling of it so far.
"The summer preceding my senior year I went home to find stopping in the house a distant cousin of mine, a very nice pretty girl, whom I shortly discovered my mother had selected to be her third daughter-in-law. Then I revolted. In the first place Carrie, poor girl, was quite ignorant of the scheme and felt no interest whatever in me, and——" He broke off undecidedly, and looked with thoughtful eyes out across the level tennis courts. There was one thing he could not quite make up his mind to recount to Jean. The memory of it was growing faint (he could not but smile a little grimly as he thus argued to himself), and why rake up that disagreeable part of his past. In truth, how could he tell clear-eyed, pure-hearted Jean of that other!
"Well?" interrogated Jean, cutting short his brief reverie.
His indecision was at an end. He straightened himself, squared his shoulders, and answered with almost a show of relief.
"Well, the very fact that I was to be compelled tomarry aroused such a tempest of resentment within me that I had no room for any other emotion. For several weeks the atmosphere was thunderous, and at the end of that time the storm broke. I boldly announced my determination to remain single. My mother—well, she did not spare me. She told me I had always been a most unnatural and ungrateful son; that I had deliberately and intentionally thwarted her in every possible way without once considering the duty that I owed to her. She gave me to understand most emphatically that, from the day I finished my course at Annapolis, she would consider her obligations to me at an end. That I might go where I pleased, do what I pleased; but, that her home was no longer mine."
"Oh, how cruel!" escaped from Jean. Her little hands were tightly clenched, and her eyes flashed indignantly.
"It did seem rather hard, especially just at that time," he returned slowly, some unexpected thought lending an expression peculiarly somber and grave in his face. "But since then I have often thought that I gave my mother a great deal of provocation."
"By not marrying according to her desire?" asked Jean, a little quickly.
Farr looked straight in her eyes for a moment before answering dryly:
"That was certainly a great factor; you see Carrie was an heiress, and owned a lot of property adjoining ours."
"Oh!" was all Jean said, but the monosyllable was most expressive.
Farr laughed light-heartedly. He had been wrought up by this opening of a long-closed chapter in his life, and it was a relief to have the tension relaxed.
"I have never for one instant regretted it, and certainly now——"
"You haven't finished your story," Jean interrupted with but scant courtesy, "please go on."
"There is not much more to tell, and I fear, too, that I am tiring you. No? well I took my mother at her word, and from that day to this I have never darkened her door. It came hardest on poor little Clarisse, I think," he went on sadly; "she had learned to depend upon me, and when she found that I was going to desert her she broke down completely. It wrung my heart to leave her, but it had to be done. I never like to think of that scene."
"Poor Clarisse!" murmured Jean softly.
"It was uphill work, at first," Farr resumed. "The lesson of poverty, with its grinding necessities, was bitter, and its bitterness redoubled by experiences that shook my faith in humanity." He flung back his head and drew a deep breath. "Somehow I lived through that first year, and then it grew easier; a maiden sister of my father's died and left me a legacy which, though small, is yet sufficient for all my needs. It is a good many years ago now, and I have only seen Clarisse once or twice, when I have happened to be in Washington in the winter. She is lonely, poor little girl; but we console each other by planning the good times we will have in some indefinite future."
After a moment, he began speaking again:
"I know how terrible this must seem to you, Miss Jean. A man at variance with his family is at a great disadvantage, and after all, you have only heard my side of the story. I almost dread," gloomily, "to have you tell me what you think of me now."
"Oh, how unjust you are to me," cried Jean indignantly. "Do you think that your trouble could make any difference to me, except to make me sorry—oh, so sorry—for you, and to make me like you and want to be your friend more than ever."
She stopped suddenly, half frightened by the look in Farr's eyes. He had grown very pale, and he spoke huskily.
"You must not be so kind to me; you tempt me to tell you why——"
"Jean! Jean!"
This piercing cry, so fraught with terror, brought them to their feet. They started forward, and even as they did so Willie stumbled across the doorway and leaned up against the post, sobbing piteously.
"Gladys, hurt," he panted, and then, his courage forsaking him, he burst into a storm of tears.
Every bit of color faded from Jean's face.
"What do you mean? O Willie, where is Gladys?"
Farr put his hand on the boy's shoulder.
"Come, little man," he said kindly, "don't cry, but take a long breath. There, that's a brave little chap. Now tell your sister where Gladys is, and what has happened."
"We were playing birds in a tree, and Gladys fell, and she can't get up," faltered Willie.
"Where?" Jean asked sharply.
"In the orchard."
Almost before the words had passed his lips, Jean pushed by him and was flying toward the orchard. Farr stopped a moment, to tell Willie to run up to the house and have them send down a couple of pillows to the orchard and to dispatch a man on horseback for the doctor; then he started in pursuit of Jean. He quickly overtook her, and they sped across the intervening space in silence. As they entered the orchard Larry's heartbreaking sobs indicated the scene of the accident, and in another instant Jean had fallen on her knees beside her little sister. The child's face was drawn, and the wide, distended eyes were strangely, unnaturally bright.
"Gladys, precious, where does it hurt you?" But a moan was her only answer.
"Oh, Mr. Farr, what can I do? How do you suppose she is hurt?"
Farr bent tenderly over little Gladys, and laid his hand lightly on her arm. A wail of pain escaped from the child's white lips, and she again lost consciousness.
Everything grew black to Jean and she swayed a little, leaning against the trunk of the tree for support. Farr's voice sounded very indistinct and strange to her.
"Come, Miss Jean, you must not faint. Do you hear me? Now, take a mouthful of this," holding out his flask to her.
Jean obeyed him unresistingly, and rallied at once, the color coming back into her face.
"Gladys has broken her arm," he went on, in a quiet, even voice that somehow helped to steady her. "There, that is right. Now you look like yourself again."
"Never mind me," she returned resolutely, straightening herself. "Is there nothing we can do for Gladys?"
"I sent Willie to the house to tell nurse to come here with pillows and to send Barnes for the doctor. Now give me the flask and put your arm under her head and raise it a trifle, so that I can give her some brandy. There, she is coming to now."
The white lids fluttered, and Gladys' eyes opened slowly.
"Jeanie, I twied to f'y, but I was too little," she murmured weakly, and she smiled up at her sister, who was bending over her with so much tenderness.
The sound of footsteps reached them, and nurse, a comfortable, motherly-looking woman, bustled up to them, her arms laden with pillows and restoratives.
Her presence brought great reassurance to Jean.
"Oh, nurse, I am so glad you are here. Gladys has been hurt."
"My poor baby, Nana will make it all well. She shouldn't have left you at all. Whatever will Miss Helen say!"
Jean's face contracted sharply, and she turned away to hide the tears that sprang to her eyes. Farr threw an angry glance at nurse, who, all unconscious of her offense, was petting and comforting Gladys.
"This is no time for talking," he said. "We mustget Gladys home as quickly as possible. Miss Jean, will you help me lift her?"
Jean recognized the kindly intent in his words, and her eyes were eloquent with gratitude.
"Little one," he went on to Gladys, "will you be a good, brave little girl and let me carry you? I will put you on this pillow, and I will be as gentle as possible. I can't promise that it won't hurt you some, but when you are once home you will be so comfortable."
"All right," assented Gladys, looking up at him with touching confidence.
But in spite of all their care, it was a very painful ordeal, and the poor child was quite spent before the manor was reached. As they mounted the steps of the veranda the doctor's gig drove up to the door. They carried Gladys up to the nursery, and Farr lingered there long enough to hear his opinion confirmed that the child had sustained no further injury than the breaking of her arm.
"I will wait downstairs," he said in an undertone to Jean, and he went out and closed the door softly behind him.
The moments dragged slowly, and he had almost renounced all hope of seeing Jean again, when he heard her footfall on the stair. She came down toward him, her white face showing the traces of tears. He sprang forward to meet her.
"I can't stay but a moment," she said to him, "for I must go right back to Gladys. The doctor has set her arm and has given her something to make her sleep and he is going very soon now."
He laid his hand on her shoulder and looked tenderly down at her.
"You look worn out. Won't you try and rest a little?"
She did not resent his action, but she moved a step away from him and his hand dropped at his side. Her lips quivered.
"I don't care about myself. I shall never, never forgive myself for my wicked thoughtlessness. That poor baby's suffering haunts me."
"I won't have you blame yourself," he declared vehemently. "I was more at fault than you, for I claimed your attention with my stupid story."
"Don't talk nonsense," she returned gently, but, nevertheless, her face lost much of its misery.
They were silent for a moment. The past hour had broken down the last barrier of reserve between them and had drawn them very close to each other. Of the two, Farr was perhaps the more conscious of the subtle change that had been wrought, and he was filled with unspeakable joy.
"You must go now," Jean told him, "but you will come back to-morrow, won't you?" She was so sure of his answer that she did not wait for him to speak. "I don't know how to thank you for all you have done for Gladys—and me," she added very low.
"If I have been the least help to you, Jean, it is more——" he began, when the outer door was pushed open, and Nathalie rushed in like a whirlwind.
"What in the world has happened," she cried excitedly. "Larry says that Gladys is hurt, but he is too frightened to be clear about it."
Jean hastened to give her an account of the accident, shrinking back a little from the light that streamed in from the open doorway, for fear of what her telltale face might reveal to Nathalie's keen eyes. Farr bade them good-by and went away, and then the two girls went directly to the nursery.
On this selfsame day, after a two hours' trip on the cars, Helen found herself at length at her destination. It was somewhat after three when she stood ringing the front-door bell of a substantial brown-stone house in a quiet side street. The city seemed hot indeed after the dewy freshness of the country, and the sun's rays beat relentlessly upon the stone flagging and cobblestones. The rumblings of carriages and wagons rolling by, the tinkling of the far off car-bells, the constant roar of the great city fell strangely upon the girl's ears so unaccustomed to the ceaseless din. Just then a street vender passed by, his shrill voice crying now and again, "Peaches! peaches! ten cents a quart!" Helen watched him pityingly until her attention was attracted by a hand-organ grinding away, "White wings, they never grow weary." Two poor little urchins sat on a neighboring doorstep pitching pennies, their small pale faces making her heart ache as she wondered what a glimpse of green fields and winding lanes would be to them. A feeling of sadness assailed her, as these sights and sounds, so familiar to city life, awakened within her a realization that outside of her sheltered life lay so many full of sorrow and suffering. Her reverie wascut short by the appearance of the maid, who immediately ushered her into the darkened drawing-room. Between the closed shutters crept a few rays of straggling sunlight which fell upon the furniture in its muslin slips, the bronzes and gas jets in their wrappings of tarlatan.
Helen had hardly found a seat, when someone hastily descended the stairs, and pushing open the door, made a rush across the room and threw her arms about her.
"You dear girl," Miss Stuart cried, "how glad I am to see you, and how good of you to come. You cannot imagine how overjoyed I was when I received your telegram."
"But I wanted to come, Lillian. You do not seem to take that into consideration." Then, after a pause, "Ah! how lovely you look, but then it seems to me you invariably do."
Helen was right, for Miss Stuart, gowned in a dainty peignoir of white silk covered with filmy lace, looked especially charming.
At the compliment she laughed softly, and pinched Helen's cheek. "There is no curing you, is there, dear? I thought, perhaps, a separation from me might have improved you."
"But you must not expect it," Helen maintained naïvely, "unless you grow less pretty."
Miss Stuart kissed her warmly. "Let us talk sense now," she said reprovingly. "Were you surprised at my message? I must explain. I was obliged to come down for mamma on a matter of business, and as it was too long a trip to return again to Bar Harbor to-day,I thought it better to rest, and remain overnight in town."
"And do you go back to-morrow?"
"Well, no; not if you will take me to Hetherford with you."
"Indeed I will, with the greatest pleasure."
"And you are quite sure it is convenient now? I did not expect to be with you until the middle of August, but being obliged to come down at this time, I thought perhaps I had better go to you at once for my visit. Later I have several others to pay, and do not know that I could manage then to get to Hetherford at all."
"I am delighted to have you at once, Lillian; you could not come too soon to please me, and you can always be sure of a welcome at the manor."
"Yes, with you, but I am not so sure of those sisters of yours."
Helen flushed. "Pray don't say that."
"Ah, my dear, don't let it trouble you. I rest quite content in your affection."
But whatever there was in Miss Stuart's words or tone, a shadow rested on Helen's face for some little while afterward.
Perhaps Lillian Stuart saw it, for, by and by, she began to speak again of the manor.
"You have no idea, Helen, how much I long to see your lovely home, nor with what pleasure I look forward to being with you, dearest."
"You are good to say so, Lillian, and I will do all in my power to make you happy."
"You will not have to try, dear, I am sure."
Miss Stuart rose and touched a bell. A quiet middle-aged woman answered it.
"Mrs. Perkins, Miss Lawrence remains with me overnight. See that dinner is prepared for us."
"Yes, Miss."
"Wait, Perkins. I want you to send Virginie to me."
In a moment the French maid was knocking on the door.
"Virginie, preparez la chambre voisine de la mienne, et portez-y le sac de Mlle. Lawrence."
When the girls at length were seated in Miss Stuart's pretty boudoir, they fell into a long and pleasant chat, finding much to say to one another after several months' separation.
By and by Miss Stuart presented a programme for the evening, saying. "Now, Helen, you little puritan, don't dare to find fault or criticise. My cousin, Harry Stuart, is going to take us to the theater, and it will be perfectly charming. He is almost like a brother to me, and there could not be the slightest impropriety in it."
Helen did not demur then, but, after returning from the theater and in looking back over the evening, she felt some misgivings. "Harry" proved to be a gay, scatterbrained youth, more or less in love with his beautiful cousin. He stared a little curiously at Helen on being presented, and then devoted himself exclusively to Miss Stuart, whom he treated with a lack of deference, a familiarity, which Helen hotly resented. Miss Stuart, however, was apparently quite oblivious of it, and flirted with him openly, exchangingglances of amusement with him, as Helen's face grew graver and graver.
A chance remark of his, which unfortunately reached Helen's ears, did not tend to soften her judgment of him.
"Who is your little friend, coz? She is tremendously respectable, and doesn't approve of us at all."
Helen retired to her room that night in a frame of mind to find serious fault with her fascinating friend.
Miss Stuart realized that she had gone a little too far, and determined to overcome the impression she had made. She well knew the power that her great beauty exerted over Helen, blinding her to faults that he who ran might read, so she coiled her mass of auburn hair most becomingly, slipped on a dainty pale blue wrapper, encased her feet in slippers of the same hue and presented herself in Helen's room, and proceeded to make herself so charming and agreeable that in ten minutes Helen had completely forgotten her grievance.
The following morning, at an early hour, they left for Hetherford. Helen neglected to wire Jean of their change of plan, so no carriage met them at the station, and they were obliged to rumble up to the manor in the old Hetherford stage.
Helen's heart sank when Jean ran down to the veranda to tell her of Gladys' accident.
"You cannot imagine how I felt, Helen, for I knew it was all my fault. I should not have forgotten her for one moment."
"Indeed, I think you were very careless, Jean." Helen spoke sharply, for her anxiety made her nervous and irritable.
Jean had gone forward and shaken hands with Miss Stuart, but at these words she turned abruptly away. She felt so reproached and woe-begone. It almost seemed to her that all the world must know how completely absorbed she had been in that sweet talk with Farr, to have allowed her mind to wander from the little sister. In this guilty and depressed state of mind, her welcome to Miss Stuart somewhat lacked cordiality, and the latter, who had never liked Jean, found herself no whit better pleased.
Nathalie came flying down the stairs, making a fortunate diversion.
"Now, Helen, don't scold Jean, for she is heartbroken. Gladys is doing splendidly and will be about in a few days. How do you do, Miss Stuart? I am very glad to see you, and so sorry that our anxiety about Gladys is making us forget to make you at home. Please let me take your bag, and come right up to your old quarters."
Helen looked gratefully at her sister, and Miss Stuart's manner relaxed under this warm cordiality, and she followed Nathalie up to her room.
Jean went out upon the veranda, and walked slowly up and down. Her thoughts, which for a moment had been diverted, flew swiftly back to Farr. He had not spoken the words, yet she knew he loved her. She trembled a little, startled at the depth of emotion this knowledge aroused in her. So this was love—thissudden wild beating of her heart, this passionate joy of living.
"Poor fellow," she thought, with yearning tenderness, "how much he has suffered."
It was a blessed comfort to feel that it lay within her power to help to brighten his lonely, loveless life. She stood quite still and clasped her hands tightly together. "I love him! I love him!" The unspoken words sent the blood to her cheeks, and she was filled with dismay. She roused herself abruptly from her dream and hastened upstairs to join Helen in the nursery.
That day seemed interminable to Jean. When the long afternoon had worn away and Farr had not come, she consoled herself with the thought that the evening would surely bring him. She tried to curb her impatience by filling the slow-footed moments with manifold unnecessary duties, but it seemed to her that the happy time would never come.
They were all very quiet at dinner, for Helen was listening for the slightest sound from the nursery, while Jean's absorbing thoughts held her tongue in chains.
"Well, well," cried Nathalie at last, "what will Miss Stuart think of us? No doubt that this is the home of the Sphinx. Our silence is growing gruesome."
Thus recalled to her duties as hostess, Helen glanced quickly at her friend, and was distressed to see the expression of cold disdain that rested on her face.
"I beg your pardon, Lillian," she said penitently,leaning forward and taking Miss Stuart's hand. "I am so upset about Gladys that I have forgotten my manners."
"Pray, don't apologize, Helen. It is of no consequence whatever." Miss Stuart spoke with studied indifference and withdrew her hand. She deemed it only her right to be first with her friends always and under all circumstances; and to have Helen, adoring, subservient Helen, relegate her to a position of secondary importance was an offense which merited instant punishment.
Jean and Nathalie, on the alert for any slight to their sister, exchanged significant glances.
Helen made no further demonstration of affection, but began to talk gently and courteously to her guest. Jean and Nathalie came valiantly to her assistance, until at last Miss Stuart was forced to respond to their friendly overtures. When they were leaving the dining room she slipped her hand into Helen's arm. It was the nearest approach to an apology of which her nature was capable, and Helen had fain to be content. All her life Miss Stuart had been in the habit of snubbing people at her own sweet will and had found it a diverting occupation; but somehow it hurt her to snub Helen, the girl was always so patient and generous about it.
They drifted quite naturally out onto the veranda. The sky was overcast, and a faint wind sighed among the trees. The heavy clouds promised rain, and the earth, after reveling in days of sunshine and nights of brilliant beauty, seemed wrapped in melancholy submission.
Before very long Nan and Emily came running across the lawn. Nan greeted Miss Stuart cordially, but Emily was very cool, and looked askance at this dangerously beautiful addition to their circle. When she had shaken hands, she faced the girls as solemn as a judge.
"Girls, what do you suppose has happened? TheVortexhas gone away, and those miserable men never came to say good-by, and did not even send a line."
"Now see here, Emily," Nan interposed warmly. "I don't believe in being unjust. It must have been a sudden move, and of course we will hear from them."
"It is a great shame," complained Nathalie. "What shall we do with ourselves?"
At Emily's first words Jean started forward, then fell back in her chair, dazed and stunned. She pressed her hand against her heart to stay its loud throbbing, passionately grateful that the kindly darkness sheltered her from view. She could not tell how long it might have been when she was aroused by a sentence from Emily which arrested her attention.
"Yes, it is such a pretty stitch. I'll teach it to you some day, Helen."
Had she heard aright? Could it be possible that theVortexwas already forgotten—its officers banished to the indifferent past? Her sudden excitement died away and a dull feeling of pain tugged at her heart. Her hands dropped nervelessly into her lap, and her lids closed wearily over her aching eyes.
The conversation drifted into local channels, andMiss Stuart was beginning to feel very much bored when Eleanor and Cliff sauntered up the driveway and joined the party. She awaked from her apathy to survey Cliff critically, and then proceeded to monopolize his attention. Cliff dropped into a chair beside her and lent himself readily to her plan. She was a charming woman, a beautiful woman, so he assumed his most devoted manner, and apparently succumbed at once to her gracious, subtle flattery. Eleanor cast an amused glance at him over her shoulder; she felt too sure of him to be disturbed; and pushing her way among the group until she reached Jean's side:
"I met Johnnie Matthews at the gate, dear. He was on his way to the manor with a note for you, and, since it required no answer, I volunteered to bring it up."
"Thanks, Eleanor. I suppose Mrs. Matthews wants me to take her class again next Sunday. She has been ill."
Eleanor had dropped the note into Jean's lap and was moving away, but something in her friend's voice startled her. She looked at her curiously, but in that light she could not discern her expression. She hesitated a moment, and then sat down on the arm of Jean's chair.
"How is Gladys to-night?" she asked.
Jean made an effort to speak more naturally.
"Very comfortable, thank you. The doctor says her arm is doing nicely, and so far she has not had any fever."
"Eleanor, did you know theVortexhad gone?"
As Nathalie spoke Eleanor impulsively took Jean's hand in hers. It was very cold, and trembled in her clasp. Jean's unhappiness was explained, and at the same moment another idea flashed through her mind. She answered Nathalie with well-feigned lightness:
"It can't be more than a temporary absence, I am sure." Then added in a lower tone to Jean, "Don't you want to read your note, dearie? It may not be from Mrs. Matthews."
Jean gave a start, and, instinctively, her disengaged hand closed over the note in her lap.
"I think I will take it to the light."
She rose hurriedly and made her way to the doorway, where the light from the lamp fell upon her letter. The handwriting was unfamiliar, and Jean's heart seemed to stand still as she tore open the envelope. The opening words dispelled the last doubt; her whole expression changed, and she eagerly drank in the contents of the sheet, all unconscious of the pair of eyes that were watching her narrowly. Nothing escaped Miss Stuart. She saw plainly the sudden start, the rising color, the tremulous happiness in the young girl's face. Perhaps the sight stirred some strange memory, deep hidden in her heart, for she smiled bitterly, and answered some pleasantry of Cliff's with such stinging cynicism that even that languid youth was aroused to retort.
But to Jean the whole world was forgotten, as she read the lines: