Chapter 43

* * * * *

Michael and Ada walked slowly down the sloping square, where they saw scarcely any one. Then, turninga corner, they emerged in the main street of the old town, which also sloped steeply downhill. The sunlight was streaming gaily upon this street; the shops were open, and many people were moving to and fro. In it were situated the house of Ada’s father, her former home; the schoolroom in which the concert had taken place, and several other public buildings—all clustering together, in homely vicinity, as they do in towns of this size. As they proceeded down this street they, of course, attracted notice. It was not a usual thing to see Michael walking in a leisurely manner down the town at that hour of the day. And it was more than a year since his companion had been seen in the places where her figure had once been familiar. People looked at them—came to their doors in curiosity, and gazed at and after them, and Michael knew that his companion was trembling from head to foot. Her face was deadly pale; her eyes were fixed upon the ground. But she neither hurried, nor faltered in her step, walking straight onwards, down the hill, and towards the mills. When they were nearly there, and the number of people who were about had sensibly diminished, he spoke to her, for the first time, quietly and tranquilly—

‘Now, Ada, shall we return? I think you have walked far enough.’

‘Not that way,’ she replied, in a fluttering voice. ‘I can’t face it again. We’ll cross the footbridge, and go round the other side, where it’s quieter.’

He humoured her, and they went through the dark passage, and emerged on the bridge.

‘Now,’ said she, ‘won’t you turn back, sir? I don’t want to keep you, and I can go well enough by myself this way. It is very quiet.’

‘Yes, very quiet,’ replied he composedly. ‘I will walk round with you. My time is quite at your disposal.’

She hesitated for a moment, and he saw that she looked at him in a stealthy, side-long manner, of which he took no notice, openly. Happening to turn his head, he saw Gilbert just behind them. He wondered how he had got there, but felt a sense of relief in knowing that he was present, and obeying a sign of his brother’s hand, took no notice of him.

Midway over the bridge, Ada walked more slowly, raised her head, and began to look about her.

‘Why,’ she observed, ‘the river is in spate; that’s the rains up by Cauldron, I suppose?’

‘Yes,’ said Michael; and, indeed, there was a wild, if a joyous prospect around them. April green on the woods and grass, and April sunshine in the sky, and the river, which was, as she said, in spate, tearing along, many feet higher than usual, with brown, turbid waters, looking resistless in their swiftness and their strength.

‘Well,’ she next observed, in a muffled voice, ‘it’s far worse than I thought, and not better, as Miss Askam said it would be. It makes me sure that I’m right.’

‘Right in what, Ada?’

‘In what I thought about facing the people again.’

‘It is the first step that costs. In time you will mind it less. It is well that you tried it.’

‘Perhaps it is. It is well to make sure of things,’ said Ada, in a stronger voice. ‘But I’ll never do it again. I’ll never be stared at and whispered about in that way, any more. They would like to throw stones at me, if they dared. If I’d been alone, I daresay they would have done.’

‘You wrong them——’

‘What does it matter?’ she said, coldly, as she stooped to pick a tuft of small flowers from the grassy bank of the river. Then she paused a moment, picking them to pieces, and seemed absorbed in reflection upon what she had felt in passing through the town. Suddenly she looked up at Michael, and said—

‘There’s one thing I should like to say, Dr. Langstroth.Youare a man, whatever the rest may be; and I always knew you were; and it was because I always felt you were so high above me that I used to say such ill-natured things of you to Roger. I knew that you saw through me, if he didn’t; but you never betrayed me. However, it will be all the same to you. I can’t hurt you or help you, one way or another—so good-bye.’

With that she slipped past him, with a darting movement which eluded his grasp, ran down the bank of the river, stood for one moment poised for the spring she took, and the next instant he saw her swept like a reed, many yards away, down the giant current of the stream.

‘Fool that I was!’ he muttered, turning instinctively to rush down the stream, and if possible, go beyond her, before he plunged in, so that he could meet and intercept her. But Gilbert met him at the corner of the bridge. There was a curious look in his eyes, and his hand held back Michael by the arm, with a grip in which the latter felt powerless.

‘Your way is over the bridge,’ he said. ‘Go and meet us. Eleanor sentme.’

It had scarce taken two seconds to say and do; and Gilbert had plunged into the stream also. The current instantly washed both figures across to the other bank.Michael rushed across the bridge, and down the other side, pale; a surging in his ears; his heart thumping, so that his laboured breath could scarce come. Dimly he saw that other forms met him at the bridge end, and followed him; vaguely he heard a hum of voices behind him. He pursued his way, panting, blind with fear. Ever and anon the noise of the river seemed to swell into a roar like thunder, which quenched all other sounds. Here and there a growth of bushes and willows hid the waters from him; but at last, as he stumbled onwards, and rounded one of the curves in that much curved stream, his straining eyes caught sight of something—human forms, surely—arrested by a rock which projected midway into the current.

‘He has got to shore, and brought her with him,’ a thought seemed to say. ‘He is too exhausted to drag himself out. I shall soon be with him now.’

But, without knowing it, he began to sob and sob and sob as he approached; and when he drew near, instead of going swiftly to the place, he strayed around and about it, and could not, dared not go close.

It seemed long, very long before he could understand. Other persons, who had seen what had happened, or part of it, and who had seen Michael rush after the other two, had come up, and they told him again and again. A score of times he heard the words repeated: ‘Dead; both dead. No one could swim in such a flood!’ And yet he did not grasp it. But at last, after what seemed a long time, it did come home to him, and he understood that Ada had avenged herself.

CHAPTER XLIII

MAGDALEN. IN VALEDICTION

It was July of the same year, and the time drew towards evening. The bright, westering sun was shining into the library at the Red Gables. In one of the deep window-seats, Eleanor and Michael sat side by side, and hand in hand. It seemed as if he had just returned from some journey, for there were signs about the room of a traveller’s recent arrival; and she, it would appear, had not even yet done bidding him welcome, her eyes dwelling still, with undiminished light of affection upon a face beloved. They had been man and wife for three weeks, and after a short ten days of honeymoon, he had brought her home, and left her there, while he went to London, to attend to the innumerable affairs connected with his brother’s business, will, and death. Ten minutes ago he had come in, and she was asking him for his news, which he seemed almost unwilling to enter upon.

‘There are letters for me, I perceive,’ he said at last. ‘That is from Roger. When did it come?’

‘This morning only.’

‘Let me have it.’

‘No. I have read it. It will keep, because it contains good news. I want to know first all you have not told me. The good news for the last.’

‘I have told you almost everything, my child. It has been a sad business; sad from beginning to end. I have settled it all up—all poor Gilbert’s affairs. He was different from me; no doubt of that. I learnt a lesson or two.’

‘In what way?’

‘Why, Eleanor, it is simply the old story, that a man often seems much worse than he is. I never for a moment realised thatIcould have been in fault. I always saw his sin so large; it blotted out everything else. We will talk it all over another time. There was no difficulty in settling his affairs; disorder was abhorrent to his very soul. When I think of that, and of his painstaking, methodical, perfect system of doing things, and then remember my own scatterbrained practices, and remember how young he was, too, I feel as if now, by the light of all these other troubles and experiences, I can understand the temptation that beset him then, to keep things safe—the returning prosperity which he had built up with so much trouble—to keep me from squandering it, as he felt sure I should. Yes; I can see it. By George! What an opinion I must have had in those days of my own perfection and freedom from flaw of any kind. It is incredible.’

‘But, Michael, it was wrong of him.’

‘Yes, it was wrong of him, and as wrong of me. Roger knew that. Roger was very unhappy because of what I did. We were both about as wrong as we could be, I suppose.’

Eleanor was silent. She would not gainsay him, but she did not agree; and it was hardly to be expected that she should at that stage of the proceedings.

‘His will, Eleanor, will surprise you. It was made since that Christmas when you and he were togetherat Thorsgarth; when Magdalen and Otho became engaged. And he has left his money rather curiously,—half to Magdalen, in case she marries Otho, to be settled upon her and her children if she should have any, as strictly as it can possibly be done; and half to you, in case you marry—whom, do you suppose?’

‘Not himself?’ she asked, pale and breathless.

Michael laughed.

‘No, madam, but your present husband.’

‘Michael! And what if——’

‘If neither of those marriages really took place, it all came to me, except an annuity to Magdalen of five hundred a year.’

‘To Magdalen!’

‘Yes. I, too, was surprised at first. And then I seemed to comprehend that too. It was for the sake of old times, when we were young together. He and Magdalen in a cool, curious sort of way, always understood one another; and when he was over here, he several times spoke to me about her, and seemed distressed at the idea of the great change and reverse that had come over her. “She is not a high-minded woman,” he said to me once, “but she has had every hope crushed, and has lived in a kind of tomb with that old woman all the best of her life.” So that was the way he took, I suppose, of expressing his sympathy.’

‘It is wonderful,’ said Eleanor, in a low voice, feeling humbled, puzzled, and ashamed. This view of Magdalen’s life had never intruded itself into her mind. And it was as if she heard a voice echoing in the air about her, ‘Judge not!’

‘Yes, it is wonderful, and very humbling to me. And to you also, he left this ring.’

He took a case from his breast-pocket, and gave it to her. It contained a ring set with a large pearl of unusual size and beauty, surrounded by brilliants, in a fine and delicate small pattern.

‘He wished you to wear it always,’ said Michael in a low voice. ‘This was in a private letter to me, half finished, which he must have left amongst his other papers when he came down here with Otho, just before that wedding. He said it was more like his idea of you than anything he had ever seen.’

Eleanor was weeping silently as Michael placed this ring upon her hand.

‘Why did he think of me in that way?’ she whispered, between her tears. ‘It was so wrong, so unlike the truth. It makes me afraid. I shall always feel that I am a renegade when I look at it.’

‘It made him a great deal happier, at any rate,’ said Michael, gently. ‘And now, Eleanor, something else. I saw Otho while I was in town.’

‘Yes?’ she said, in a slow, reluctant whisper.

‘Well, he is indeed a broken man. His sins have come home to him, and Ada avenged herself fearfully; but how, do you suppose?’

She shook her head.

‘Not by her own death; he hardly alluded to it. That whole connection with Ada was the merest freak. It is, as it were, by chance alone—that awful chance which we call Destiny—that that caprice has had such effects for us all. It is, through Gilbert’s death, and his alone. It sounds odd to say such a thing of the regard of one man for another, but one might almost say that his affection for Gilbert has been the one love of his life——’

‘I know what you mean; and it is so, in a way. Gilbert had more of his heart and soul than any one else—even Magdalen.’

‘Yes, even Magdalen; for he trifled and played with her, and in fact, mastered her even in coming round to her wishes; but Gilbert, never. It was like the love of a dog for its master. It has knocked him down completely; he has no spirit left. He said there was nothing to live for when a fellow’s friend was gone, and he gave some dark hint as to being Gilbert’s murderer. I did not stay long with him. I don’t know what will become of him. It was absolutely necessary that I should see him on business; so I saw him, and had done with him.’

‘Did he say nothing about Ada’s little child, and its death?’

‘Not a word; and I did not, either. It seemed to me a desecration to mention such things to him.’

‘Yes. Let us not speak of him. We cannot do anything for him. He would not let us; and for years to come I do not think I could bear to look upon his face. That is all I want to know. Let us read Roger’s letter now. He has got a great post, and is going to take a long holiday with us in the autumn; and then he is going to South America to manage a business there for the people he is now with.’

‘Ah! His career, that I have prophesied for him, is beginning then,’ said Michael, as he read Roger’s letter with her, seated beside her, each of them holding a leaf. And as they sat thus, with that softened look upon their faces which comes with thoughts of a much-loved absent one, the door opened, and the servant announced Miss Wynter.

They both looked up in surprise as she entered. Shewalked up to the table and stood looking at them with a keen, searching gaze, and her lips quivered a little as she saw the attitude of entire trust, and the look of peace and of rest upon both faces. Magdalen, like the others, was in black; she was still clad in the deep mourning she had been wearing for Miss Strangforth; perhaps in her soul she was not sorry that circumstances allowed her to wear a garb so well according with her own feelings. But it struck Eleanor that she was equipped for a longer journey than that from Balder Hall to the Red Gables. Her face was very pale, but there was no abatement—there never had been any abatement—in the pride of its expression. Whatever Magdalen’s fate, she would always carry it, to all outward seeming, with the stateliness of a queen who wears her crown.

‘You were so absorbed, you scarcely heard my name,’ she said, in her clear, rather sarcastic tones, and with a slight cool smile. ‘I am glad to find you in. I heard that Michael was coming home to-day, and I did not wish to go away without saying good-bye.’

‘You are going away?’ said Eleanor. ‘Are you going for long?’

‘Most likely I shall never see you again,’ Magdalen pursued. ‘It is not probable that our paths will ever cross. Indeed, I shall make it my object to prevent them from doing so.’

‘Magdalen——’

But Michael, a little better acquainted with human nature, and especially with Magdalen’s nature, than was his wife, had already guessed, and his eyes were fixed upon Miss Wynter’s face, scrutinisingly, but with little surprise.

‘I am going to London,’ said Magdalen. ‘I intend travelling there by the south mail this evening. I havesent my things on, and called to see you on my way to the station.’

‘To London——’ began Eleanor.

Magdalen’s eyebrows contracted. She gave a short, impatient laugh.

‘How long you are in comprehending! I see Michael understood at once. Ah, Michael, if you had understood me as well seven years ago!... Well, Eleanor, I am going to Otho.’

‘To Otho!’

‘Yes, to Otho. When I promised to marry him, I swore that when the time came, I would follow him faithfully, no matter how or where. He said we should both know when it had come. It has come now. Since he saw you in town, Michael, I have heard from him. He has taken some rooms for me, and I shall go and stay there; and as soon as I have been there long enough, we shall be married.’

Eleanor was silent at first. Then she began tremulously—

‘Have you thought seriously about it? After what has happened, he can have no claim upon you; and you surely do not dare to go to him.’

‘Dare—I dare, most certainly, go to him, and stay with him. I am not afraid of him. I never was. If some other people had been as little afraid of him as I was, perhaps he might not have made such a hideous bungle as he has done, of his life. But if I were afraid of him, I should go to him all the more, after what I swore to him, lest he should do me some hurt if I disobeyed him.’

‘But, Magdalen——’

‘But, Eleanor!’ said the other, in a deep, stern voice. ‘Let me explain myself, and then, if you fail to understand,it will not be my fault. I am going to him now, first because of my promise, which meant, that when there should be nothing to prevent me from marrying him, I would be his wife. And what is there to prevent me now?’

‘There is himself!’ cried Eleanor, passionately. ‘Michael, tell her—explain to her that she must not tie——’

‘Wait! She has not finished yet,’ said Michael.

‘No, I have not,’ Magdalen assented. ‘First, because of my promise to him. You think that because himself, as you call it, frightened and repelled you, it must, of course, be the same with every one else. Well, while I am about it, I will tell you the whole truth. He has not a friend in the world, I suppose, now that Gilbert is gone, except me. I am in the same case. While my poor old aunt still lived, there was always some one who believed in me, and thought I was an angel. There is no one now. Himself—such as he is—loves me, with such love as he has to give; clings to me, and wants me. And I—such as I am—infinitely beneath you, I confess’ (with a mocking smile and bow), ‘love him, with what heart has not been crushed out of me. Yes, and such as he is,’ she added, raising herself before them, and looking at them with a kind of defiance on her scornful face—‘such as he is, I think it worth while to go to him, and try to save him from destruction. Perhaps I shall not succeed. That doesn’t matter. I want something to do, and there it is, ready to my hand.... And also, I shall then have kept a promise to one man, at any rate.’

Eleanor stared at her, half-fascinated, half-repelled.

‘One word to you, Michael,’ added Magdalen. ‘You look happy now, as I have never seen you look before; and I firmly believe you will be happy. You must haveforgiven me long ago for not having married you; and now I should think you join thankfulness to forgiveness. But I wish to tell you that I know I behaved vilely to you—not in breaking off our engagement, but in ever making it; and you treated me better than most men would treat a woman who has cheated them, and then made a mess of her affairs. I wronged you, and I deserve what I have got for it. That is more than I would own to any one else in the world. It will serve as my wedding present to you, Eleanor; there is no testimony to goodness so strong as that which is offered by what is—not goodness. And now,’ she added, looking at the clock, ‘it is time for me to go. I should like to shake hands with you both, and wish you good-bye.’

In her attitude, as she turned towards them, there was something imposing. There was neither softness, nor benignity, nor true nobility—the nobility of soul, that is—in any of her looks or gestures; but there was a certain still, unbending pride, and a dauntless, unquailing gaze into the iron eyes of misfortune which thrilled them both. Eleanor took her hand between both her own, and looked long, earnestly, speechlessly into her face, saying at last—

‘Magdalen, why do you delight to make yourself out a worse woman than you are? Is it nothing that you have done, to live with Miss Strangforth as you did, and treat her so that she thought you an angel? nothing in what you are going to do? For it is a martyrdom to which you doom yourself, say what you please.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ said Magdalen, with a harsh laugh, looking with a curious expression into Eleanor’s eyes. ‘That’s why I am not a good woman, Eleanor. It is nomartyrdom at all. I am glad, I amgladI am going—going to get away from this hateful place, and be married to Otho. And if I had got married to Michael, long before he ever saw you, child, I should have been a miserable woman, and should most likely have done something outrageous, sooner or later. That’s where the badness comes in. Good-bye, Michael.’

‘Let me come to the train and see you off,’ he said.

‘No, certainly not. You mean to be kind, I know; but I am going alone. If I fancied you were looking after me, I might look back, and not be so delighted with my future as I ought.’

‘Then, Magdalen, give it up, and stay with——’ began Eleanor eagerly, as she stepped forward with outstretched hands. But the other had gone swiftly out of the room, without looking back, and had closed the door after her.

Eleanor turned to her husband, who was looking at her. They confronted each other for a moment or two, till she asked—

‘Is she a heroine, or is she—Michael, what is she?’

‘She is Magdalen Wynter,’ he answered. ‘I don’t know what she is; but there is certainly some heroine in her.’

‘To marry Otho!’ murmured Eleanor.

‘I think she is just doing what she said herself, going to work with the thing nearest her hand—anything to get away from here. And it takes the shape of heroism, because, you know, she will never let him sink; at least, she will be always struggling to keep him straight—what they call straight,’ said Michael, and his voice was not quite steady. ‘Magdalen always laughed at heroism,’ he added.

‘God help her!’ said Eleanor, in a low voice.

* * * * *

The factories by the river have now been long disused. Most likely Michael will some time follow the once despised advice of honest Sir Thomas Winthrop, and pull them down. As they stand now, silent and quiet, footsteps echo through the passage which leads to the bridge, and Tees goes murmuring past the spot, telling, as it seems to our imperfect ears, the same story exactly that it has been telling for so many hundred years. Whether what we call inanimate nature stands blindly by, without taking any impress from the scenes which humanity acts in the arena she prepares for them, is one of the mysteries which we cannot solve. To us, the trees appear the same each year, and the voice of the river changes only with the seasons, and with periods of drought or flood. A shriek, once uttered, is lost, and death is the end of all things.

Long letters come from Roger to the friends at the Red Gables, telling of prosperity and advancement, speaking of love unchanged to them and theirs, but never hinting at any thoughts of returning to his native land.

Ada’s child, which pined and died not long after she did, is buried in her grave; and Gilbert also sleeps in Bradstane churchyard.

As for the two who were left alone of all this company who had been young at the same time, the years brought changes in their life, and ofttimes in their habitations. But since this chronicle professes only to deal with that part of their lives which was played out in the Borderland where they dwelt, it is not necessary to follow those changes, but only to say that they stillspeak of Bradstane and the Red Gables as ‘home.’ For humane and kindly hearts always find loves and interests; hopes and occupations spring thickly around them, on every side and in every soil; and so it was with these two. Human interests and hopes, keen and deep, bind them to the old spot. There are those there, both old and young, whom they love, and who love them, and from whose vicinity they would not, if they could, tear themselves altogether. These things, and a certain righteousness of thought and deed in their own lives, have mercifully dimmed and blurred the memories of one or two tragic years, and have restored most of its loveliness and much of its freshness to life; have done for their bitterer remembrances exactly what the abundant ivy and the gracious growth of flowers and ferns have done for the naked grimness of the castle ruins which stand on the cliff above the river.

THE END

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By MARIE CORELLI.

A Romance of Two Worlds.

Vendetta!|Thelma.

Ardath.

By F. MONTGOMERY.Misunderstood.Thrown Together.Seaforth.

By F. MONTGOMERY.

Misunderstood.

Thrown Together.

Seaforth.

By E. WERNER.Success: and how he Won It.Under a Charm.Fickle Fortune.No Surrender.

By E. WERNER.

Success: and how he Won It.

Under a Charm.

Fickle Fortune.

No Surrender.

By J. SHERIDAN LE FANU.Uncle Silas.In a Glass Darkly.The House by the Churchyard.

By J. SHERIDAN LE FANU.

Uncle Silas.

In a Glass Darkly.

The House by the Churchyard.

By Mrs. NOTLEY.Olive Varcoe.

By Mrs. NOTLEY.

Olive Varcoe.

By FRANCES M. PEARD.Near Neighbours.

By FRANCES M. PEARD.

Near Neighbours.

ANONYMOUS.The Last of the Cavaliers.Sir Charles Danvers.

ANONYMOUS.

The Last of the Cavaliers.

Sir Charles Danvers.

By Lady G. FULLERTON.Ellen Middleton.Ladybird.Too Strange not to be True.

By Lady G. FULLERTON.

Ellen Middleton.

Ladybird.

Too Strange not to be True.

By JESSIE FOTHERGILL.The ‘First Violin.’Borderland.Healey.Kith and Kin.Probation.By HELEN MATHERS.Comin’ thro’ the Rye.Sam’s Sweetheart.By HENRY ERROLL.An Ugly Duckling.By Mrs. PARR.Adam and Eve.Dorothy Fox.By Baroness TAUTPHŒUS.The Initials.Quits!By Mrs. RIDDELL.George Geith of Fen Court.Berna Boyle.By JANE AUSTEN.(Messrs. Bentley’s are the onlycompleteEditions of Miss Austen’s Works.)Emma.Lady Susan, andThe Watsons.Mansfield Park.Northanger Abbey, andPersuasion.Pride and Prejudice.Sense and Sensibility.

By JESSIE FOTHERGILL.The ‘First Violin.’Borderland.Healey.Kith and Kin.Probation.

By JESSIE FOTHERGILL.

The ‘First Violin.’

Borderland.

Healey.

Kith and Kin.

Probation.

By HELEN MATHERS.Comin’ thro’ the Rye.Sam’s Sweetheart.

By HELEN MATHERS.

Comin’ thro’ the Rye.

Sam’s Sweetheart.

By HENRY ERROLL.An Ugly Duckling.

By HENRY ERROLL.

An Ugly Duckling.

By Mrs. PARR.Adam and Eve.Dorothy Fox.

By Mrs. PARR.

Adam and Eve.

Dorothy Fox.

By Baroness TAUTPHŒUS.The Initials.Quits!

By Baroness TAUTPHŒUS.

The Initials.

Quits!

By Mrs. RIDDELL.George Geith of Fen Court.Berna Boyle.

By Mrs. RIDDELL.

George Geith of Fen Court.

Berna Boyle.

By JANE AUSTEN.

(Messrs. Bentley’s are the onlycompleteEditions of Miss Austen’s Works.)

Emma.Lady Susan, andThe Watsons.Mansfield Park.Northanger Abbey, andPersuasion.Pride and Prejudice.Sense and Sensibility.

Emma.

Lady Susan, andThe Watsons.

Mansfield Park.

Northanger Abbey, andPersuasion.

Pride and Prejudice.

Sense and Sensibility.

LONDONRICHARD BENTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON ST.Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen.

LONDON

RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON ST.

Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen.

Transcriber’s NoteCertain compound words appear both with and without hyphens: dogcart, hearthrug, bulldog, scatterbrained. Where the hyphen appears on a line break, it is retained or removed based on other occurences of the word.Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original.21.11a decide[d]ly horsey, slangy young fellowInserted.26.24you know,[’]Added.43.9we used to go in to tea?[’]Inserted.54.21remarkably observant,[’]Added.78.21[‘]After thatAdded.86.24he is exactly sly,[’]Added.94.19though[t] he does not know it.Removed.116.1his own ple[a]santryInserted.165.33‘Oh, with pleasure[,]’Added.233.7of the right stuff.[’]Added.239.1at any of the balls?[’]Added.253.2[‘/“]Fancy their faces ...Replaced.253.5... just to look at them.[’/”]Replaced.261.25‘Do you![’] exclaimed Ada,Added.261.26[‘]Well, I never![’]Added.264.19higher and better.[’]Added.271.14[‘]I am sorryAdded.271.29[‘]Treat you in this way!Removed.311.14are always accidents,[’]Added.313.12every one and everything.[’]Added.313.29the tune of it.[’]Added.323.6before you go,[’]Added.326.12[‘]I should have doneAdded.368.8about life and other[s] thingsRemoved.

Transcriber’s Note

Certain compound words appear both with and without hyphens: dogcart, hearthrug, bulldog, scatterbrained. Where the hyphen appears on a line break, it is retained or removed based on other occurences of the word.

Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original.

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