CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIIIMarcia had gone down to her own house the next morning very early. She had hoped for a letter but none had come. Her soul was in torment between her attempt to keep out of her mind the hateful things Hannah Heath had said, and reproaching herself for what seemed to her her unseemly feeling toward David, who loved another and could never love her. It was not a part of her life-dream to love one who belonged to another. Yet her heart was his and she was beginning to know that everything belonging to him was dear to her. She went and sat in his place at the table, she touched with tenderness the books upon his desk that he had used before he went away, she went up to his room and laid her lips for one precious daring instant upon his pillow, and then drew back with wildly beating heart ashamed of her emotion. She knelt beside his bed and prayed:“Oh, God, I love him, I love him! I cannot help it!”as if she would apologize for herself, and then she hugged the thought of her love to herself, feeling its sweet pain drift through her like some delicious agony. Her love had come through sorrow to her, and was not as she would have had it could she have chosen. It brought no ray of happy hope for the future, save just the happiness of loving in secret, and of doing for the object loved, with no thought of a returned affection.Then she went slowly down the stairs, trying to think how it would seem when David came back. He had been so long gone that it seemed as if perhaps he might never return. She felt that it had been no part of the spirit of her contract with David that she should render to him this wild sweet love that he had expected Kate to give. He had not wanted it. He had only wanted a wife in name.Then the color would sweep over her face in a crimson drift and leave it painfully white, and she would glide to the piano like a ghost of her former self and play some sad sweet strain, and sometimes sing.She had no heart for her dear old woods in these days. She had tried it one day in spring; slipped over the back fence and away through the ploughed field where the sea of silver oats had surged, and up to the hillside and the woods; but she was so reminded of David that it only brought heart aches and tears. She wondered if it was because she was getting old that the hillside did not seem so joyous now, and she did not care to look up into the sky just for the pure joy of sky and air and clouds, nor to listen to the branches whisper to the robins nesting. She stooped and picked a great handful of spring beauties, but they did not seem to give her pleasure, and by and by she dropped them from listless fingers and walked sedately down to the house once more.On this morning she did not even care to play. She went into the parlor and touched a few notes, but her heart was heavy and sad. Life was growing too complex.Last week there had come a letter from Harry Temple. It had startled her when it arrived. She feared it was some ill-news about David, coming as it did from New York and being written in a strange hand.It had been a plea for forgiveness, representing that the writer had experienced nothing but deep repentance and sorrow since the time he had seen her last. He set forth his case in a masterly way, with little touching facts of his childhood, and lonely upbringing, with no mother to guide. He told her that her noble action toward him had but made him revere her the more, and that, in short, she had made a new creature of him by refusing to return his kiss that day, and leaving him alone with so severe a rebuke. He felt that if all women were so good and true men would be a differentrace, and now he looked up to her as one might look up to an angel, and he felt he could never be happy again on this earth until he had her written word of forgiveness. With that he felt he could live a new life, and she must rest assured that he would never offer other than reverence to any woman again. He further added that his action had not intended any insult to her, that he was merely expressing his natural admiration for a spirit so good and true, and that his soul was innocent of any intention of evil. With sophistry in the use of which he was an adept, he closed his epistle, fully clearing himself, and assuring her that he could have made her understand it that day if she had not left so suddenly, and he had not been almost immediately called away to the dying bed of his dear cousin. This contradictory letter had troubled Marcia greatly. She was keen enough to see that his logic was at fault, and that the two pages of his letter did not hang together, but one thing was plain, that he wished her forgiveness. The Bible said that one must forgive, and surely it was right to let him know that she did, though when she thought of the fright he had given her it was hard to do. Still, it was right, and if he was so unhappy, perhaps she had better let him know. She would rather have waited until David returned to consult him in the matter, but the letter seemed so insistent that she had finally written a stiff little note, in formal language,“Mrs. Spafford sends herewith her full and free forgiveness to Mr. Harry Temple, and promises to think no more of the matter.”She would have liked to consult some one. She almost thought of taking Aunt Clarinda into her confidence, but decided that she might not understand. So she finally sent off the brief missive, and let her troubled thoughts wander after it more than once.She was standing by the window looking out into the yard perplexing herself over this again when there came a loud knocking at the front door. She started, half frightened,for the knock sounded through the empty house so insistently. It seemed like trouble coming. She felt nervous as she went down the hall.It was only a little urchin, barefoot, and tow-headed. He had ridden an old mare to the door, and left her nosing at the dusty grass. He brought her a letter. Again her heart fluttered excitedly. Who could be writing to her? It was not David. Why did the handwriting look familiar? It could not be from any one at home. Father? Mother? No, it was no one she knew. She tore it open, and the boy jumped on his horse and was off down the street before she realized that he was gone.“Dear Madam:”the letter read,“I bring you news of your husband, and having met with an accident I am unable to come further. You will find me at the Green Tavern two miles out on the corduroy road. As the business is private, please come alone.“A Messenger.”Marcia trembled so that she sat down on the stairs. A sudden weakness went over her like a wave, and the hall grew dark around her as though she were going to faint. But she did not. She was strong and well and had never fainted in her life. She rallied in a moment and tried to think. Something had happened to David. Something dreadful, perhaps, and she must go at once and find out. Still it must be something mysterious, for the man had said it was private. Of course that meant David would not want it known. David had intended that the man would come to her and tell her by herself. She must go. There was nothing else to be done. She must go at once and get rid of this awful suspense. It was a good day for the message to have come, for she had brought her lunch expecting to do some spring cleaning. David had been expected home soon, and she liked to make a bustle of preparation as if he might come in any day, for it kept up her good cheer.Having resolved to go she got up at once, closed the doors and windows, put on her bonnet and went out down the street toward the old corduroy road. It frightened her to think what might be at the end of her journey. Possibly David himself, hurt or dying, and he had sent for her in this way that she might break the news gently to his aunts. As she walked along she conjured various forms of trouble that might have come to him. Now and then she would try to take a cheerful view, saying to herself that David might have needed more important papers, papers which he would not like everyone to know about, and had sent by special messenger to her to get them. Then her face would brighten and her step grow more brisk. But always would come the dull thud of possibility of something more serious. Her heart beat so fast sometimes that she was forced to lessen her speed to get her breath, for though she was going through town, and must necessarily walk somewhat soberly lest she call attention to herself, she found that her nerves and imagination were fairly running ahead, and waiting impatiently for her feet to catch up at every turning place.At last she came to the corduroy road—a long stretch of winding way overlaid with logs which made an unpleasant path. Most of the way was swampy, and bordered in some places by thick, dark woods. Marcia sped on from log to log, with a nervous feeling that she must step on each one or her errand would not be successful. She was not afraid of the loneliness, only of what might be coming at the end of her journey.But suddenly, in the densest part of the wood, she became conscious of footsteps echoing hers, and a chill laid hold upon her. She turned her head and there, wildly gesticulating and running after her, was Miranda!Annoyed, and impatient to be on her way, and wondering what to do with Miranda, or what she could possibly want, Marcia stopped to wait for her.“I thought—as you was goin’ ’long my way”—puffed Miranda,“I’d jes’ step along beside you. You don’t mind, do you?”Marcia looked troubled. If she should say she did then Miranda would think it queer and perhaps suspect something.She tried to smile and ask how far Miranda was going.“Oh, I’m goin’ to hunt fer wild strawberries,”said the girl nonchalantly clattering a big tin pail.“Isn’t it early yet for strawberries?”questioned Marcia.“Well, mebbe, an’ then ag’in mebbe ’tain’t. I know a place I’m goin’ to look anyway. Are you goin’ ’s fur ’s the Green Tavern?”Miranda’s bright eyes looked her through and through, and Marcia’s truthful ones could not evade. Suddenly as she looked into the girl’s homely face, filled with a kind of blind adoration, her heart yearned for counsel in this trying situation. She was reminded of Miranda’s helpfulness the time she ran away to the woods, and the care with which she had guarded the whole matter so that no one ever heard of it. An impulse came to her to confide in Miranda. She was a girl of sharp common sense, and would perhaps be able to help with her advice. At least she could get comfort from merely telling her trouble and anxiety.“Miranda,”she said,“can you keep a secret?”The girl nodded.“Well, I’m going to tell you something, just because I am so troubled and I feel as if it would do me good to tell it.”She smiled and Miranda answered the smile with much satisfaction and no surprise. Miranda had come for this, though she did not expect her way to be so easy.“I’ll be mum as an oyster,”said Miranda.“You jest tell me anything you please. You needn’t be afraid Hannah Heath’ll know a grain about it. She’n’ I are two people. I know when to shut up.”“Well, Miranda, I’m in great perplexity and anxiety.I’ve just had a note from a messenger my husband has sent asking me to come out to that Green Tavern you were talking about. He was sent to me with some message and has had an accident so he couldn’t come. It kind of frightened me to think what might be the matter. I’m glad you are going this way because it keeps me from thinking about it. Are we nearly there? I never went out this road so far before.”“It ain’t fur,”said Miranda as if that were a minor matter.“I’ll go right along in with you, then you needn’t feel lonely. I guess likely it’s business. Don’t you worry.”The tone was reassuring, but Marcia’s face looked troubled.“No, I guess that won’t do, Miranda, for the note says it is a private matter and I must come alone. You know Mr. Spafford has matters to write about that are very important, railroads, and such things, and sometimes he doesn’t care to have any one get hold of his ideas before they appear in the paper. His enemies might use them to stop the plans of the great improvements he is writing about.”“Let me see that note!”demanded Miranda.“Got it with you?”Marcia hesitated. Perhaps she ought not to show it, and yet there was nothing in the note but what she had already told the girl, and she felt sure she would not breathe a word to a living soul after her promise. She handed Miranda the letter, and they stopped a moment while she slowly spelled it out. Miranda was no scholar. Marcia watched her face eagerly, as if to gather a ray of hope from it, but she was puzzled by Miranda’s look. A kind of satisfaction had overspread her homely countenance.“Should you think from that that David was hurt—or ill—or—or—killed—or anything?”She asked the question as if Miranda were a wizard, and hung anxiously upon her answer.“Naw, I don’t reckon so!”said Miranda.“Don’t you worry. David’s all right somehow. I’ll take care o’ you. You go ’long up and see what’s the business, an’ I’ll wait here out o’ sight o’ the tavern. Likely’s not he might take a notionnot to tell you ef he see me come along with you. You jest go ahead, and I’ll be on hand when you get through. If you need me fer anything you jest holler out ‘Randy!’ good and loud an’ I’ll hear you. Guess I’ll set on this log. The tavern’s jest round that bend in the road. Naw, you needn’t thank me. This is a real pretty mornin’ to set an’ rest. Good-bye.”Marcia hurried on, glancing back happily at her protector in a calico sunbonnet seated stolidly on a log with her tin pail beside her.Poor stupid Miranda! Of course she could not understand what a comfort it was to have confided her trouble. Marcia went up to the tavern with almost a smile on her face, though her heart began to beat wildly as a slatternly girl led her into a big room at the right of the hall.As Marcia disappeared behind the bend in the road, Miranda stealthily stole along the edge of the woods, till she stood hidden behind a clump of alders where she could peer out and watch Marcia until she reached the tavern and passed safely by the row of lounging, smoking men, and on into the doorway. Then Miranda waited just an instant to look in all directions, and sped across the road, mounting the fence and on through two meadows, and the barnyard to the kitchen door of the tavern.“Mornin’! Mis’ Green,”she said to the slovenly looking woman who sat by the table peeling potatoes.“Mind givin’ me a drink o’ water? I’m terrible thirsty, and seemed like I couldn’t find the spring. Didn’t thare used to be a spring ’tween here’n town?”“Goodness sakes! Randy! Where’d you come from? Water! Jes’ help yourself. There’s the bucket jes’ from the spring five minutes since, an’ there’s the gourd hanging up on the wall. I can’t get up, I’m that busy. Twelve to dinner to-day, an’ only me to do the cookin’. ’Melia she’s got to be upstairs helpin’ at the bar.”“Who all you got here?”questioned Miranda as she took a draught from the old gourd.“Well, got a gentleman from New York fur one. He’s real pretty. Quite a beau. His clo’es are that nice you’d think he was goin’ to court. He’s that particular ’bout his eatin’ I feel flustered. Nothin’ would do but he hed to hev a downstairs room. He said he didn’t like goin’ upstairs. He don’t look sickly, neither.”“Mebbe he’s had a accident an’ lamed himself,”suggested Miranda cunningly.“Heard o’ any accidents? How’d he come? Coach or horseback?”“Coach,”said Mrs. Green.“Why do you ask? Got any friends in New York?”“Not many,”responded Miranda importantly,“but my cousin Hannah Heath has. You know she’s ben up there for a spell visitin’ an’ they say there was lots of gentlemen in love with her. There’s one in particular used to come round a good deal. It might be him come round to see ef it’s true Hannah’s goin’ to get married to Lem Skinner. Know what this fellow’s name is?”“You don’t say! Well now it might be. No, I don’t rightly remember his name. Seems though it was something like Church er Chapel. ’Melia could tell ye, but she’s busy.”“Where’s he at? Mebbe I could get a glimpse o’ him. I’d jest like to know ef he was comin’ to bother our Hannah.”“Well now. Mebbe you could get a sight o’ him. There’s a cupboard between his room an’ the room back. It has a door both sides. Mebbe ef you was to slip in there you might see him through the latch hole. I ain’t usin’ that back room fer anythin’ but a store-room this spring, so look out you don’t stumble over nothin’ when you go in fer it’s dark as a pocket. You go right ’long in. I reckon you’ll find the way. Yes, it’s on the right hand side o’ the hall. I’ve got to set here an’ finish these potatoes er dinner’ll be late. I’d like to know real well ef he’s one o’ Hannah Heath’s beaux.”Miranda needed no second bidding. She slipped through the hall and store room, and in a moment stood before the door of the closet. Softly she opened it, and stepped in, lifting her feet cautiously, for the closet floor seemed full of old boots and shoes.It was dark in there, very dark, and only one slat of light stabbed the blackness coming through the irregular shape of the latch hole. She could hear voices in low tones speaking on the other side of the door. Gradually her eyes grew accustomed to the light and one by one objects came out of the shadows and looked at her. A white pitcher with a broken nose, a row of bottles, a bunch of seed corn with the husks braided together and hung on a nail, an old coat on another nail.Down on her knees beside the crack of light went Miranda. First her eye and then her ear were applied to the small aperture. She could see nothing but a table directly in front of the door about a foot away on which were quills, paper, and a large horn inkstand filled with ink. Some one evidently had been writing, for a page was half done, and the pen was laid down beside a word.The limits of the latch hole made it impossible for Miranda to make out any more. She applied her ear and could hear a man’s voice talking in low insinuating tones, but she could make little of what was said. It drove her fairly frantic to think that she was losing time. Miranda had no mind to be balked in her purpose. She meant to find out who was in that room and what was going on. She felt a righteous interest in it.Her eyes could see quite plainly now in the dark closet. There was a big button on the door. She no sooner discovered it than she put up her hand and tried to turn it. It was tight and made a slight squeak in turning. She stopped but the noise seemed to have no effect upon the evenly modulated tones inside. Cautiously she moved the button again,holding the latch firmly in her other hand lest the door should suddenly fly open. It was an exciting moment when at last the button was turned entirely away from the door frame and the lifted latch swung free in Miranda’s hand. The door opened outward. If it were allowed to go it would probably strike against the table. Miranda only allowed it to open a crack. She could hear words now, and the voice reminded her of something unpleasant. The least little bit more she dared open the door, and she could see, as she had expected, Marcia’s bonnet and shoulder cape as she sat at the other side of the room. This then was the room of the messenger who had sent for Mrs. Spafford so peremptorily. The next thing was to discover the identity of the messenger. Miranda had suspicions.The night before she had seen a man lurking near the Spafford house when she went out in the garden to feed the chickens. She had watched him from behind the lilac bush, and when he had finally gone away she had followed him some distance until he turned into the old corduroy road and was lost in the gathering dusk. The man she had seen before, and had reason to suspect. It was not for nothing that she had braved her grandmother and gone hunting wild strawberries out of season.With the caution of a creature of the forest Miranda opened the door an inch further, and applied her eye to the latch hole again. The man’s head was in full range of her eye then, and her suspicion proved true.When Marcia entered the big room and the heavy oak door closed behind her her heart seemed almost choking her, but she tried with all her might to be calm. She was to know the worst now.On the other side of the room in a large arm-chair, with his feet extended on another and covered by a travelling shawl, reclined a man. Marcia went toward him eagerly, and then stopped:“Mr. Temple!”There was horror, fear, reproach in the way she spoke it.“I know you are astonished, Mrs. Spafford, that the messenger should be one so unworthy, and let me say at the beginning that I am more thankful than I can express that your letter of forgiveness reached me before I was obliged to start on my sorrowful commission. I beg you will sit down and be as comfortable as you can while I explain further. Pardon my not rising. I have met with a bad sprain caused by falling from my horse on the way, and was barely able to reach this stopping place. My ankle is swollen so badly that I cannot step upon my foot.”Marcia, with white face, moved to the chair he indicated near him, and sat down. The one thought his speech had conveyed to her had come through those words“my sorrowful commission.”She felt the need of sitting down, for her limbs would no longer bear her up, and she felt she must immediately know what was the matter.“Mrs. Spafford, may I ask you once more to speak your forgiveness? Before I begin to tell you what I have come for, I long to hear you say the words ‘I forgive you.’ Will you give me your hand and say them?”“Mr. Temple, I beg you will tell me what is the matter. Do not think any further about that other matter. I meant what I said in the note. Tell me quick! Is my husband—has anything happened to Mr. Spafford? Is he ill? Is he hurt?”“My poor child! How can I bear to tell you? It seems terrible to put your love and trust upon another human being and then suddenly find—— But wait. Let me tell the story in my own way. No, your husband is not hurt, physically. Illness, and death even, are not the worst things that can happen to a mortal soul. It seems to me cruel, as I see you sit there so young and tender and beautiful, that I should have to hurt you by what I have to say. I come from the purest of motives to tell you a sad truth about one whoshould be nearest and dearest to you of all the earth. I beg you will look upon me kindly and believe that it hurts me to have to tell you these things. Before I begin I pray you will tell me that you forgive me for all I have to say. Put your hand in mine and say so.”Marcia had listened to this torrent of words unable to stop them, a choking sensation in her throat, fear gripping her heart. Some terrible thing had happened. Her senses refused to name the possibility. Would he never tell? What ailed the man that he wanted her hand in forgiveness? Of course she forgave him. She could not speak, and he kept urging.“I cannot talk until I have your hand as a pledge that you will forgive me and think not unkindly of me for what I am about to tell you.”He must have seen how powerfully he wrought upon her, for he continued until wild with frantic fear she stumbled toward him and laid her hand in his. He grasped it and thanked her profusely. He looked at the little cold hand in his own, and his lying tongue went on:“Mrs. Spafford, you are good and true. You have saved me from a life of uselessness, and your example and high noble character have given me new inspiration. It seems a poor gratitude that would turn and stab you to the heart. Ah! I cannot do it, and yet I must.”This was torture indeed! Marcia drew her hand sharply away and held it to her heart. She felt her brain reeling with the strain. Harry Temple saw he must go on at once or he would lose what he had gained. He had meant to keep that little hand and touch it gently with a comforting pressure as his story went on, but it would not do to frighten her or she might take sudden alarm.“Sit down,”he begged, reaching out and drawing a chair near to his own, but she stepped back and dropped into the one which she had first taken.“You know your husband has been in New York?”he began. She nodded. She could not speak.“Did you never suspect why he is there and why he stays so long?”A cold vise gripped Marcia’s heart, but though she turned white she said nothing, only looked steadily into the false eyes that glowed and burned at her like two hateful coals of fire that would scorch her soul and David’s to a horrid death.“Poor child, you cannot answer. You have trusted perfectly. You thought he was there on business connected with his writing, but did it never occur to you what a very long time he has been away and that—that there might be some other reason also which he has not told? But you must know it now, my child. I am sorry to say it, but he has been keeping it from you, and those who love you think you ought to know. Let me explain. Very soon after he reached New York he met a lady whom he used to know and admire. She is a very beautiful woman, and though she is married is still much sought after. Your husband, like the rest of her admirers, soon lost his heart completely, and his head. Strange that he could so easily forget the pearl of women he had left behind! He went to see her. He showed his affection for her in every possible way. He gave her large sums of money. In fact, to make a long story short, he is lingering in New York just to be near her. I hesitate to speak the whole truth, but he has surely done that which you cannot forgive. You with your lofty ideas—Mrs. Spafford—he has cut himself off from any right to your respect or love.“And now I am here to-day to offer to do all in my power to help you. From what I know of your husband’s movements, he is likely to return to you soon. You cannot meet him knowing that the lips that will salute you have been pressed upon the lips of another woman, and that womanyour own sister, dear Mrs. Spafford!“Ah! Now you understand, poor child. Your lipsquiver! You have reason to understand. I know, I know you cannot think what to do. Let me think for you.”His eyes were glowing and his face animated. He was using all his persuasive power, and her gaze was fixed upon him as though he had mesmerized her. She could not resist the flood-tide of his eloquence. She could only look on and seem to be gradually turning to stone—frozen with horror.He felt he had almost won, and with demoniacal skill he phrased his sentences.“I am here for that purpose. I am here to help you and for no other reason. In the stable are horses harnessed and a comfortable carriage. My advice to you is to fly from here as fast as these fleet horses can carry you. Where you go is for you to say. I should advise going to your father’s house. That I am sure is what will please him best. He is your natural refuge at such a time as this. If, however, you shrink from appearing before the eyes of the village gossips in your native town, I will take you to the home of a dear old friend of mine, hidden among the quiet hills, where you will be cared for most royally and tenderly for my sake, and where you can work out your life problem in the way that seems best to you. It is there that I am planning to take you to-night. We can easily reach there before evening if we start at once.”Marcia started to her feet in horror.“What do you mean?”she stammered in a choking voice.“I could never go anywhere with you Mr. Temple. You are a bad man! You have been telling me lies! I do not believe one word of what you have said. My husband is noble and good. If he did any of those things you say he did he had a reason for it. I shall never distrust him.”Marcia’s head was up grandly now and her voice had come back. She looked the man in the eye until he quailed, but still he sought to hold his power over her.“You poor child!”and his voice was gentleness and forbearance itself.“I do not wonder in your first horror andsurprise that you feel as you do. I anticipated this. Sit down and calm yourself and let me tell you more about it. I can prove everything that I have said. I have letters here——”and he swept his hand toward a pile of letters lying on the table; Miranda in the closet marked well the position of those letters.“All that I have said is only too true, I am sorry to say, and you must listen to me——”Marcia interrupted him, her eyes blazing, her face excited:“Mr. Temple, I shall not listen to another word you say. You are a wicked man and I was wrong to come here at all. You deceived me or I should not have come. I must go home at once.”With that she started toward the door.Harry Temple flung aside the shawl that covered his sometime sprained ankle and arose quickly, placing himself before her, forgetful of his invalid rôle:“Not so fast, my pretty lady,”he said, grasping her wrists fiercely in both his hands.“You need not think to escape so easily. You shall not leave this room except in my company. Do you not know that you are in my power? You have spent nearly an hour alone in my bedchamber, and what will your precious husband have to do with you after this is known?”CHAPTER XXIVMiranda’s time had come. She had seen it coming and was prepared.With a movement like a flash she pushed open the closet door, seized the pot of ink from the table, and before the two excited occupants of the room had time to even hear her or realize that she was near, she hurled the ink pot full into the insolent face of Harry Temple. The inkstand itself was a light affair of horn and inflicted only a slight wound, but the ink came into his eyes in a deluge blinding him completely, as Miranda had meant it should do. She had seen no other weapon of defense at hand.Harry Temple dropped Marcia’s wrists and groaned in pain, staggering back against the wall and sinking to the floor. But Miranda would not stay to see the effect of her punishment. She seized the frightened Marcia, dragged her toward the cupboard door, sweeping as she passed the pile of letters, finished and unfinished, into her apron, and closed the cupboard doors carefully behind her. Then she guided Marcia through the dark mazes of the store room to the hall, and pushing her toward the front door, whispered:“Go quick ’fore he gets his eyes open. I’ve got to go this way. Run down the road fast as you can an’ I’ll be at the meetin’ place first. Hurry, quick!”Marcia went with feet that shook so that every step seemed like to slip, but with beating heart she finally traversed the length of the piazza with a show of dignity, passed the loungers, and was out in the road. Then indeed she took courage and fairly flew.Miranda, breathless, but triumphant, went back into the kitchen:“I guess ’tain’t him after all,”she said to the interestedwoman who was putting on the potatoes to boil.“He’s real interesting to look at though. I’d like to stop and watch him longer but I must be goin’. I come out to hunt fer”—Miranda hesitated for a suitable object before this country-bred woman who well knew that strawberries were not ripe yet—“wintergreens fer Grandma,”she added cheerfully, not quite sure whether they grew around these parts,“and I must be in a hurry. Good-bye! Thank you fer the drink.”Miranda whizzed out of the door breezily, calling a good morning to one of the hostlers as she passed the barnyard, and was off through the meadows and over the fence like a bird, the package of letters rustling loud in her bosom where she had tucked them before she entered the kitchen.Neither of the two girls spoke for some minutes after they met, but continued their rapid gait, until the end of the corduroy road was in sight and they felt comparatively safe.“Wal, that feller certainly ought to be strung up an’ walluped, now, fer sure,”remarked Miranda,“an I’d like to help at the wallupin’.”Marcia’s overstrung nerves suddenly dissolved into hysterical laughter. The contrast from the tragic to the ridiculous was too much for her. She laughed until the tears rolled down her cheeks, and then she cried in earnest. Miranda stopped and put her arms about her as gently as a mother might have done, and smoothed her hair back from the hot cheek, speaking tenderly:“There now, you poor pretty little flower. Jest you cry ’s hard ’s you want to. I know how good it makes you feel to cry. I’ve done it many a time up garret where nobody couldn’t hear me. That old Satan, he won’t trouble you fer a good long spell again. When he gets his evil eyes open, if he ever does, he’ll be glad to get out o’ these parts or I miss my guess. Now don’t you worry no more. He can’t hurt you one mite. An’ don’t you think a thing about what he said. He’s a great big liar, that’s what he is.”“Miranda, you saved me. Yes, you did. I never can thank you enough. If you hadn’t come and helped me something awful might have happened!”Marcia shuddered and began to sob convulsively again.“Nonsense!”said Miranda, pleased.“I didn’t do a thing worth mentioning. Now you jest wipe your eyes and chirk up. We’ve got to go through town an’ you don’t want folks to wonder what’s up.”Miranda led Marcia up to the spring whose location had been known to her all the time of course, and Marcia bathed her eyes and was soon looking more like herself, though there was a nervous tremor to her lips now and then. But her companion talked gaily, and tried to keep her mind from going over the events of the morning.When they reached the village Miranda suggested they go home by the back street, slipping through a field of spring wheat and climbing the garden fence. She had a mind to keep out of her grandmother’s sight for a while longer.“I might’s well be hung for a sheep’s a lamb,”she remarked, as she slid in at Marcia’s kitchen door in the shadow of the morning-glory vines.“I’m goin’ to stay here a spell an’ get you some dinner while you go upstairs an’ lie down. You don’t need to go back to your aunt’s till near night, an’ you can wait till dusk an’ I’ll go with you. Then you needn’t be out alone at all. I know how you feel, but I don’t believe you need worry. He’ll be done with you now forever, er I’ll miss my guess. Now you go lie down till I make a cup o’ tea.”Marcia was glad to be alone, and soon fell asleep, worn out with the excitement, her brain too weary to go over the awful occurrences of the morning. That would come later. Now her body demanded rest.Miranda, coming upstairs with the tea, tiptoed in and looked at her,—one round arm thrown over her head, and her smooth peachy cheek resting against it. Miranda,homely, and with no hope of ever attaining any of the beautiful things of life, loved unselfishly this girl who had what she had not, and longed with all her heart to comfort and protect the sweet young thing who seemed so ill-prepared to protect herself. She stooped over the sleeper for one yearning moment, and touched her hair lightly with her lips. She felt a great desire to kiss the soft round cheek, but was afraid of wakening her. Then she took the cup of tea and tiptoed out again, her eyes shining with satisfaction. She had a self-imposed task before her, and was well pleased that Marcia slept, for it gave her plenty of opportunity to carry out her plans.She went quickly to David’s library, opened drawers and doors in the desk until she found writing materials, and sat down to work. She had a letter to write, and a letter, to Miranda, was the achievement of a lifetime. She did not much expect to ever have to write another. She plunged into her subject at once.“Dear Mr. David:”(she was afraid that sounded a little stiff, but she felt it was almost too familiar to say“David”as he was always called.)“I ain’t much on letters, but this one has got to be writ. Something happened and somebody’s got to tell you about it. I’m most sure she wont, and nobody else knows cept me.“Last night ’bout dark I went out to feed the chickens, an’ I see that nimshi Harry Temple skulkin round your house. It was all dark there, an he walked in the side gate and tried to peek in the winders, only the shades was down an he couldn’t see a thing. I thought he was up to some mischief so I followed him down the street a piece till he turned down the old corduroy road. It was dark by then an I come home, but I was on the watchout this morning, and after Mis’ Spafford come down to the house I heard a horse gallopin by an I looked out an saw a boy get off an take a letter to the door an ride away, an pretty soon all in a hurry your wife come out tyin her bonnet and hurryin along lookin scared. I grabbed my sunbonnet anclipped after her, but she went so fast I didn’t get up to her till she got on the old corduroy road. She was awful scared lookin an she didn’t want me much I see, but pretty soon she up an told me she had a note sayin there was a messenger with news from you out to the old Green Tavern. He had a accident an couldn’t come no further. He wanted her to come alone cause the business was private, so I stayed down by the turn of the road till she got in an then I went cross lots an round to the kitchen an called on Mis’ Green a spell. She was tellin me about her boarders an I told her I thought mebbe one of em was a friend o’ Hannah Heath’s so she said I might peek through the key hole of the cubberd an see. She was busy so I went alone.“Well sir, I jest wish you’d been there. That lying nimshi was jest goin on the sweetest, as respectful an nice a thankin your wife fer comin, an excusin himself fer sendin fer her, and sayin he couldn’t bear to tell her what he’d come fer, an pretty soon when she was scared ’s death he up an told her a awful fib bout you an a woman called Kate, whoever she is, an he jest poured the words out fast so she couldn’t speak, an he said things about you he shouldn’t uv, an you could see he was makin it up as he went along, an he said he had proof. So he pointed at a pile of letters on the table an I eyed em good through the hole in the door. Pretty soon he ups and perposes that he carry her off in a carriage he has all ready, and takes her to a friend of his, so she wont be here when you come home, cause you’re so bad, and she gets up looking like she wanted to scream only she didn’t dare, and she says he dont tell the truth, it wasn’t so any of it, and if it was it was all right anyway, that you had some reason, an she wouldn’t go a step with him anywhere. An then he forgets all about the lame ankle he had kept covered up on a chair pertendin it was hurt fallin off his horse when the coach brought him all the way fer I asked Mis’ Green—and he ketches her by the wrists, and he says she can’t go without him, and she needn’t be in such a hurry fer you wouldn’t have no more to do with her anyway after her being shut up there with him so long, an then she looked jest like she was going to faint, an I bust out through the door an ketched up the ink pot, it want heavy enough tokill him, an I slung it at him, an the ink went square in his eyes, an we slipped through the closet an got away quick fore anybody knew a thing.“I brought all the letters along so here they be. I havn’t read a one, cause I thought mebbe you’d ruther not. She aint seen em neither. She dont know I’ve got em. I hid em in my dress. She’s all wore out with cryin and hurryin, and being scared, so she’s upstairs now asleep, an she dont know I’m writing. I’m goin to send this off fore she knows, fer I think she wouldn’t tell you fear of worryin you. I’ll look after her es well’s I can till you get back, but I think that feller ought to be strung up. But you’ll know what to do, so no more at present from your obedient servent,“Miranda Griscom.”Having at last succeeded in sealing her packet to her satisfaction and the diminishing of the stick of sealing wax she had found in the drawer, Miranda slid out the front door, and by a detour went to David Spafford’s office.“Good afternoon, Mr. Clark,”she said to the clerk importantly.“Grandma sends her respecks and wants to know ef you’d be so kind as to back this letter fer her to Mr. David Spafford. She’s writin’ to him on business an’ she don’t rightly know his street an’ number in New York.”Mr. Clark willingly wrote the address, and Miranda took it to the post office, and sped back to Marcia, happy in the accomplishment of her purpose.In the same mail bag that brought Miranda’s package came a letter from Aunt Clarinda. David’s face lit up with a pleased smile. Her letters were so infrequent that they were a rare pleasure. He put aside the thick package written in his clerk’s hand. It was doubtless some business papers and could wait.Aunt Clarinda wrote in a fine old script that in spite of her eighty years was clear and legible. She told about the beauty of the weather, and how Amelia and Hortense were almost done with the house cleaning, and how Marcia had beengoing to their house every day putting it in order. Then she added a paragraph which David, knowing the old lady well, understood to be theraison d’êtreof the whole letter:“I think your wife misses you very much, Davie, she looks sort of peeked and sad. It is hard on her being separated from you so long this first year. Men don’t think of those things, but it is lonely for a young thing like her here with three old women, and you know Hortense and Amelia never try to make it lively for anybody. I have been watching her, and I think if I were you I would let the business finish itself up as soon as possible and hurry back to put a bit of cheer into that child. She’s whiter than she ought to be.”David read it over three times in astonishment with growing, mingled feelings which he could not quite analyze.Poor Aunt Clarinda! Of course she did not understand the situation, and equally of course she was mistaken. Marcia was not sighing for him, though it might be dull for her at the old house. He ought to have thought of that; and a great burden suddenly settled down upon him. He was not doing right by Marcia. It could not be himself of course that Marcia was missing, if indeed Aunt Clarinda was right and she was worried about anything. Perhaps something had occurred to trouble her. Could that snake of a Temple have turned up again? No, he felt reasonably sure he would have heard of that, besides he saw him not long ago on the street at a distance. Could it be some boy-lover at home whose memory came to trouble her? Or had she discovered what a sacrifice she had made of her young life? Whatever it was, it was careless and cruel in him to have left her alone with his aunts all this time. He was a selfish man, he told himself, to have accepted her quiet little sacrifice of all for him. He read the letter over again, and suddenly there came to him a wish that Marciawasmissing him. It seemed a pleasant thought to have her care. He had been trying to train himself to the fact that no one would ever care for him again,but now it seemed dear and desirable that his sweet young companion should like to have him back. He had a vision of home as it had been, so pleasant and restful, always the food that he liked, always the thought for his wishes, and he felt condemned. He had not noticed or cared. Had she thought him ungrateful?He read the letter over again, noting every mention of his wife in the account of the daily living at home. He was searching for some clue that would give him more information about her. And when he reached the last paragraph about missing him, a little tingle of pleasure shot through him at the thought. He did not understand it. After all she was his, and if it was possible he must help to make up to her for what she had lost in giving herself to him. If the thought of doing so brought a sense of satisfaction to him that was unexpected, he was not to blame in any wise.Since his interview with Kate, and the terrible night of agony through which he had passed, David had plunged into his business with all his might. Whenever a thought of Kate came he banished it if possible, and if it would not go he got out his writing materials and went to work at an article, to absorb his mind. He had several times arisen in the night to write because he could not sleep, and must think.When he was obliged to be in New York he had steadily kept away from the house where Kate lived, and never walked through the streets without occupying his mind as fully as possible so that he should not chance to see her. In this way his sorrow was growing old without having been worn out, and he was really regaining a large amount of his former happiness and interest in life. Not so often now did the vision of Kate come to trouble him. He thought she was still his one ideal of womanly beauty and grace and perfection of course, and always would be, but she was not for him to think upon any more. A strong true man he was growing, out of his sorrow. And now when the thought of Marcia came tohim with a certain sweetness he could be glad that it was so, and not resent it. Of course no one could ever take the place of Kate, that was impossible.So reflecting, with a pleasant smile upon his face, he opened Miranda’s epistle.Puzzled and surprised he began to read the strange chirography, and as he read his face darkened and he drew his brows in a heavy frown.“The scoundrel!”he muttered as he turned the sheet. Then as he went on his look grew anxious. He scanned the page quickly as if he would gather the meaning from the crooked ill-spelled words without taking them one by one. But he had to go slowly, for Miranda had not written with as much plainness as haste. He fairly held his breath when he thought of the gentle girl in the hands of the unscrupulous man of the world. A terrible fear gripped his heart, Marcia, little Marcia, so sweet and pure and good. A vision of her face as she lay asleep in the woods came between him and the paper. Why had he left her unprotected all these months? Fool that he was! She was worth more than all the railroads put together. As if his own life was in the balance, he read on, growing sick with horror. Poor child! what had she thought? And how had his own sin and weakness been found out, or was it merely Harry Temple’s wicked heart that had evolved these stories? The letter smote him with terrible accusation, and all at once it was fearful to him to think that Marcia had heard such things about him. When he came to her trust in him he groaned aloud and buried his face in the letter, and then raised it quickly to read to the end.When he had finished he rose with sudden determination to pack his carpet-bag and go home at once. Marcia needed him, and he felt a strong desire to be near her, to see her and know she was safe. It was overwhelming. He had not known he could ever feel strongly again. He must confess his own weakness of course, and he would. She should know all and know that she might trust his after all.But the motion of rising had sent the other papers to the floor, and in falling the bundle of letters that Miranda had enclosed, scattered about him. He stooped to pick them up and saw his own name written in Kate’s handwriting. Old association held him, and wondering, fearful, not wholly glad to see it, he picked up the letter. It was an epistle of Kate’s, written in intimate style to Harry Temple and speaking of himself in terms of the utmost contempt. She even stooped to detail to Harry an account of her own triumph on that miserable morning when he had taken her in his arms and kissed her. There were expressions in the letter that showed her own wicked heart, as nothing else could ever have done, to David. As he read, his soul growing sick within him,—read one letter after another, and saw how she had plotted with this bad man to wreck the life of her young sister for her own triumph and revenge,—the beautiful woman whom he had loved, and whom he had thought beautiful within as well as without, crumbled into dust before him. When he looked up at last with white face and firmly set lips, he found that his soul was free forever from the fetters that had bound him to her.He went to the fireplace and laid the pile of letters among the embers, blowing them into a blaze, and watched them until they were eaten up by the fire and nothing remained but dead grey ashes. The thought came to him that that was like his old love. It was burnt out. There had not been the right kind of fuel to feed it. Kate was worthless, but his own self was alive, and please God he would yet see better days. He would go home at once to the child wife who needed him, and whom now he might love as she should be loved. The thought became wondrously sweet to him as he rapidly threw the things into his travelling bag and went about arrangements for his trip home. He determined that if he ever came to New York again Marcia should come with him.

CHAPTER XXIIIMarcia had gone down to her own house the next morning very early. She had hoped for a letter but none had come. Her soul was in torment between her attempt to keep out of her mind the hateful things Hannah Heath had said, and reproaching herself for what seemed to her her unseemly feeling toward David, who loved another and could never love her. It was not a part of her life-dream to love one who belonged to another. Yet her heart was his and she was beginning to know that everything belonging to him was dear to her. She went and sat in his place at the table, she touched with tenderness the books upon his desk that he had used before he went away, she went up to his room and laid her lips for one precious daring instant upon his pillow, and then drew back with wildly beating heart ashamed of her emotion. She knelt beside his bed and prayed:“Oh, God, I love him, I love him! I cannot help it!”as if she would apologize for herself, and then she hugged the thought of her love to herself, feeling its sweet pain drift through her like some delicious agony. Her love had come through sorrow to her, and was not as she would have had it could she have chosen. It brought no ray of happy hope for the future, save just the happiness of loving in secret, and of doing for the object loved, with no thought of a returned affection.Then she went slowly down the stairs, trying to think how it would seem when David came back. He had been so long gone that it seemed as if perhaps he might never return. She felt that it had been no part of the spirit of her contract with David that she should render to him this wild sweet love that he had expected Kate to give. He had not wanted it. He had only wanted a wife in name.Then the color would sweep over her face in a crimson drift and leave it painfully white, and she would glide to the piano like a ghost of her former self and play some sad sweet strain, and sometimes sing.She had no heart for her dear old woods in these days. She had tried it one day in spring; slipped over the back fence and away through the ploughed field where the sea of silver oats had surged, and up to the hillside and the woods; but she was so reminded of David that it only brought heart aches and tears. She wondered if it was because she was getting old that the hillside did not seem so joyous now, and she did not care to look up into the sky just for the pure joy of sky and air and clouds, nor to listen to the branches whisper to the robins nesting. She stooped and picked a great handful of spring beauties, but they did not seem to give her pleasure, and by and by she dropped them from listless fingers and walked sedately down to the house once more.On this morning she did not even care to play. She went into the parlor and touched a few notes, but her heart was heavy and sad. Life was growing too complex.Last week there had come a letter from Harry Temple. It had startled her when it arrived. She feared it was some ill-news about David, coming as it did from New York and being written in a strange hand.It had been a plea for forgiveness, representing that the writer had experienced nothing but deep repentance and sorrow since the time he had seen her last. He set forth his case in a masterly way, with little touching facts of his childhood, and lonely upbringing, with no mother to guide. He told her that her noble action toward him had but made him revere her the more, and that, in short, she had made a new creature of him by refusing to return his kiss that day, and leaving him alone with so severe a rebuke. He felt that if all women were so good and true men would be a differentrace, and now he looked up to her as one might look up to an angel, and he felt he could never be happy again on this earth until he had her written word of forgiveness. With that he felt he could live a new life, and she must rest assured that he would never offer other than reverence to any woman again. He further added that his action had not intended any insult to her, that he was merely expressing his natural admiration for a spirit so good and true, and that his soul was innocent of any intention of evil. With sophistry in the use of which he was an adept, he closed his epistle, fully clearing himself, and assuring her that he could have made her understand it that day if she had not left so suddenly, and he had not been almost immediately called away to the dying bed of his dear cousin. This contradictory letter had troubled Marcia greatly. She was keen enough to see that his logic was at fault, and that the two pages of his letter did not hang together, but one thing was plain, that he wished her forgiveness. The Bible said that one must forgive, and surely it was right to let him know that she did, though when she thought of the fright he had given her it was hard to do. Still, it was right, and if he was so unhappy, perhaps she had better let him know. She would rather have waited until David returned to consult him in the matter, but the letter seemed so insistent that she had finally written a stiff little note, in formal language,“Mrs. Spafford sends herewith her full and free forgiveness to Mr. Harry Temple, and promises to think no more of the matter.”She would have liked to consult some one. She almost thought of taking Aunt Clarinda into her confidence, but decided that she might not understand. So she finally sent off the brief missive, and let her troubled thoughts wander after it more than once.She was standing by the window looking out into the yard perplexing herself over this again when there came a loud knocking at the front door. She started, half frightened,for the knock sounded through the empty house so insistently. It seemed like trouble coming. She felt nervous as she went down the hall.It was only a little urchin, barefoot, and tow-headed. He had ridden an old mare to the door, and left her nosing at the dusty grass. He brought her a letter. Again her heart fluttered excitedly. Who could be writing to her? It was not David. Why did the handwriting look familiar? It could not be from any one at home. Father? Mother? No, it was no one she knew. She tore it open, and the boy jumped on his horse and was off down the street before she realized that he was gone.“Dear Madam:”the letter read,“I bring you news of your husband, and having met with an accident I am unable to come further. You will find me at the Green Tavern two miles out on the corduroy road. As the business is private, please come alone.“A Messenger.”Marcia trembled so that she sat down on the stairs. A sudden weakness went over her like a wave, and the hall grew dark around her as though she were going to faint. But she did not. She was strong and well and had never fainted in her life. She rallied in a moment and tried to think. Something had happened to David. Something dreadful, perhaps, and she must go at once and find out. Still it must be something mysterious, for the man had said it was private. Of course that meant David would not want it known. David had intended that the man would come to her and tell her by herself. She must go. There was nothing else to be done. She must go at once and get rid of this awful suspense. It was a good day for the message to have come, for she had brought her lunch expecting to do some spring cleaning. David had been expected home soon, and she liked to make a bustle of preparation as if he might come in any day, for it kept up her good cheer.Having resolved to go she got up at once, closed the doors and windows, put on her bonnet and went out down the street toward the old corduroy road. It frightened her to think what might be at the end of her journey. Possibly David himself, hurt or dying, and he had sent for her in this way that she might break the news gently to his aunts. As she walked along she conjured various forms of trouble that might have come to him. Now and then she would try to take a cheerful view, saying to herself that David might have needed more important papers, papers which he would not like everyone to know about, and had sent by special messenger to her to get them. Then her face would brighten and her step grow more brisk. But always would come the dull thud of possibility of something more serious. Her heart beat so fast sometimes that she was forced to lessen her speed to get her breath, for though she was going through town, and must necessarily walk somewhat soberly lest she call attention to herself, she found that her nerves and imagination were fairly running ahead, and waiting impatiently for her feet to catch up at every turning place.At last she came to the corduroy road—a long stretch of winding way overlaid with logs which made an unpleasant path. Most of the way was swampy, and bordered in some places by thick, dark woods. Marcia sped on from log to log, with a nervous feeling that she must step on each one or her errand would not be successful. She was not afraid of the loneliness, only of what might be coming at the end of her journey.But suddenly, in the densest part of the wood, she became conscious of footsteps echoing hers, and a chill laid hold upon her. She turned her head and there, wildly gesticulating and running after her, was Miranda!Annoyed, and impatient to be on her way, and wondering what to do with Miranda, or what she could possibly want, Marcia stopped to wait for her.“I thought—as you was goin’ ’long my way”—puffed Miranda,“I’d jes’ step along beside you. You don’t mind, do you?”Marcia looked troubled. If she should say she did then Miranda would think it queer and perhaps suspect something.She tried to smile and ask how far Miranda was going.“Oh, I’m goin’ to hunt fer wild strawberries,”said the girl nonchalantly clattering a big tin pail.“Isn’t it early yet for strawberries?”questioned Marcia.“Well, mebbe, an’ then ag’in mebbe ’tain’t. I know a place I’m goin’ to look anyway. Are you goin’ ’s fur ’s the Green Tavern?”Miranda’s bright eyes looked her through and through, and Marcia’s truthful ones could not evade. Suddenly as she looked into the girl’s homely face, filled with a kind of blind adoration, her heart yearned for counsel in this trying situation. She was reminded of Miranda’s helpfulness the time she ran away to the woods, and the care with which she had guarded the whole matter so that no one ever heard of it. An impulse came to her to confide in Miranda. She was a girl of sharp common sense, and would perhaps be able to help with her advice. At least she could get comfort from merely telling her trouble and anxiety.“Miranda,”she said,“can you keep a secret?”The girl nodded.“Well, I’m going to tell you something, just because I am so troubled and I feel as if it would do me good to tell it.”She smiled and Miranda answered the smile with much satisfaction and no surprise. Miranda had come for this, though she did not expect her way to be so easy.“I’ll be mum as an oyster,”said Miranda.“You jest tell me anything you please. You needn’t be afraid Hannah Heath’ll know a grain about it. She’n’ I are two people. I know when to shut up.”“Well, Miranda, I’m in great perplexity and anxiety.I’ve just had a note from a messenger my husband has sent asking me to come out to that Green Tavern you were talking about. He was sent to me with some message and has had an accident so he couldn’t come. It kind of frightened me to think what might be the matter. I’m glad you are going this way because it keeps me from thinking about it. Are we nearly there? I never went out this road so far before.”“It ain’t fur,”said Miranda as if that were a minor matter.“I’ll go right along in with you, then you needn’t feel lonely. I guess likely it’s business. Don’t you worry.”The tone was reassuring, but Marcia’s face looked troubled.“No, I guess that won’t do, Miranda, for the note says it is a private matter and I must come alone. You know Mr. Spafford has matters to write about that are very important, railroads, and such things, and sometimes he doesn’t care to have any one get hold of his ideas before they appear in the paper. His enemies might use them to stop the plans of the great improvements he is writing about.”“Let me see that note!”demanded Miranda.“Got it with you?”Marcia hesitated. Perhaps she ought not to show it, and yet there was nothing in the note but what she had already told the girl, and she felt sure she would not breathe a word to a living soul after her promise. She handed Miranda the letter, and they stopped a moment while she slowly spelled it out. Miranda was no scholar. Marcia watched her face eagerly, as if to gather a ray of hope from it, but she was puzzled by Miranda’s look. A kind of satisfaction had overspread her homely countenance.“Should you think from that that David was hurt—or ill—or—or—killed—or anything?”She asked the question as if Miranda were a wizard, and hung anxiously upon her answer.“Naw, I don’t reckon so!”said Miranda.“Don’t you worry. David’s all right somehow. I’ll take care o’ you. You go ’long up and see what’s the business, an’ I’ll wait here out o’ sight o’ the tavern. Likely’s not he might take a notionnot to tell you ef he see me come along with you. You jest go ahead, and I’ll be on hand when you get through. If you need me fer anything you jest holler out ‘Randy!’ good and loud an’ I’ll hear you. Guess I’ll set on this log. The tavern’s jest round that bend in the road. Naw, you needn’t thank me. This is a real pretty mornin’ to set an’ rest. Good-bye.”Marcia hurried on, glancing back happily at her protector in a calico sunbonnet seated stolidly on a log with her tin pail beside her.Poor stupid Miranda! Of course she could not understand what a comfort it was to have confided her trouble. Marcia went up to the tavern with almost a smile on her face, though her heart began to beat wildly as a slatternly girl led her into a big room at the right of the hall.As Marcia disappeared behind the bend in the road, Miranda stealthily stole along the edge of the woods, till she stood hidden behind a clump of alders where she could peer out and watch Marcia until she reached the tavern and passed safely by the row of lounging, smoking men, and on into the doorway. Then Miranda waited just an instant to look in all directions, and sped across the road, mounting the fence and on through two meadows, and the barnyard to the kitchen door of the tavern.“Mornin’! Mis’ Green,”she said to the slovenly looking woman who sat by the table peeling potatoes.“Mind givin’ me a drink o’ water? I’m terrible thirsty, and seemed like I couldn’t find the spring. Didn’t thare used to be a spring ’tween here’n town?”“Goodness sakes! Randy! Where’d you come from? Water! Jes’ help yourself. There’s the bucket jes’ from the spring five minutes since, an’ there’s the gourd hanging up on the wall. I can’t get up, I’m that busy. Twelve to dinner to-day, an’ only me to do the cookin’. ’Melia she’s got to be upstairs helpin’ at the bar.”“Who all you got here?”questioned Miranda as she took a draught from the old gourd.“Well, got a gentleman from New York fur one. He’s real pretty. Quite a beau. His clo’es are that nice you’d think he was goin’ to court. He’s that particular ’bout his eatin’ I feel flustered. Nothin’ would do but he hed to hev a downstairs room. He said he didn’t like goin’ upstairs. He don’t look sickly, neither.”“Mebbe he’s had a accident an’ lamed himself,”suggested Miranda cunningly.“Heard o’ any accidents? How’d he come? Coach or horseback?”“Coach,”said Mrs. Green.“Why do you ask? Got any friends in New York?”“Not many,”responded Miranda importantly,“but my cousin Hannah Heath has. You know she’s ben up there for a spell visitin’ an’ they say there was lots of gentlemen in love with her. There’s one in particular used to come round a good deal. It might be him come round to see ef it’s true Hannah’s goin’ to get married to Lem Skinner. Know what this fellow’s name is?”“You don’t say! Well now it might be. No, I don’t rightly remember his name. Seems though it was something like Church er Chapel. ’Melia could tell ye, but she’s busy.”“Where’s he at? Mebbe I could get a glimpse o’ him. I’d jest like to know ef he was comin’ to bother our Hannah.”“Well now. Mebbe you could get a sight o’ him. There’s a cupboard between his room an’ the room back. It has a door both sides. Mebbe ef you was to slip in there you might see him through the latch hole. I ain’t usin’ that back room fer anythin’ but a store-room this spring, so look out you don’t stumble over nothin’ when you go in fer it’s dark as a pocket. You go right ’long in. I reckon you’ll find the way. Yes, it’s on the right hand side o’ the hall. I’ve got to set here an’ finish these potatoes er dinner’ll be late. I’d like to know real well ef he’s one o’ Hannah Heath’s beaux.”Miranda needed no second bidding. She slipped through the hall and store room, and in a moment stood before the door of the closet. Softly she opened it, and stepped in, lifting her feet cautiously, for the closet floor seemed full of old boots and shoes.It was dark in there, very dark, and only one slat of light stabbed the blackness coming through the irregular shape of the latch hole. She could hear voices in low tones speaking on the other side of the door. Gradually her eyes grew accustomed to the light and one by one objects came out of the shadows and looked at her. A white pitcher with a broken nose, a row of bottles, a bunch of seed corn with the husks braided together and hung on a nail, an old coat on another nail.Down on her knees beside the crack of light went Miranda. First her eye and then her ear were applied to the small aperture. She could see nothing but a table directly in front of the door about a foot away on which were quills, paper, and a large horn inkstand filled with ink. Some one evidently had been writing, for a page was half done, and the pen was laid down beside a word.The limits of the latch hole made it impossible for Miranda to make out any more. She applied her ear and could hear a man’s voice talking in low insinuating tones, but she could make little of what was said. It drove her fairly frantic to think that she was losing time. Miranda had no mind to be balked in her purpose. She meant to find out who was in that room and what was going on. She felt a righteous interest in it.Her eyes could see quite plainly now in the dark closet. There was a big button on the door. She no sooner discovered it than she put up her hand and tried to turn it. It was tight and made a slight squeak in turning. She stopped but the noise seemed to have no effect upon the evenly modulated tones inside. Cautiously she moved the button again,holding the latch firmly in her other hand lest the door should suddenly fly open. It was an exciting moment when at last the button was turned entirely away from the door frame and the lifted latch swung free in Miranda’s hand. The door opened outward. If it were allowed to go it would probably strike against the table. Miranda only allowed it to open a crack. She could hear words now, and the voice reminded her of something unpleasant. The least little bit more she dared open the door, and she could see, as she had expected, Marcia’s bonnet and shoulder cape as she sat at the other side of the room. This then was the room of the messenger who had sent for Mrs. Spafford so peremptorily. The next thing was to discover the identity of the messenger. Miranda had suspicions.The night before she had seen a man lurking near the Spafford house when she went out in the garden to feed the chickens. She had watched him from behind the lilac bush, and when he had finally gone away she had followed him some distance until he turned into the old corduroy road and was lost in the gathering dusk. The man she had seen before, and had reason to suspect. It was not for nothing that she had braved her grandmother and gone hunting wild strawberries out of season.With the caution of a creature of the forest Miranda opened the door an inch further, and applied her eye to the latch hole again. The man’s head was in full range of her eye then, and her suspicion proved true.When Marcia entered the big room and the heavy oak door closed behind her her heart seemed almost choking her, but she tried with all her might to be calm. She was to know the worst now.On the other side of the room in a large arm-chair, with his feet extended on another and covered by a travelling shawl, reclined a man. Marcia went toward him eagerly, and then stopped:“Mr. Temple!”There was horror, fear, reproach in the way she spoke it.“I know you are astonished, Mrs. Spafford, that the messenger should be one so unworthy, and let me say at the beginning that I am more thankful than I can express that your letter of forgiveness reached me before I was obliged to start on my sorrowful commission. I beg you will sit down and be as comfortable as you can while I explain further. Pardon my not rising. I have met with a bad sprain caused by falling from my horse on the way, and was barely able to reach this stopping place. My ankle is swollen so badly that I cannot step upon my foot.”Marcia, with white face, moved to the chair he indicated near him, and sat down. The one thought his speech had conveyed to her had come through those words“my sorrowful commission.”She felt the need of sitting down, for her limbs would no longer bear her up, and she felt she must immediately know what was the matter.“Mrs. Spafford, may I ask you once more to speak your forgiveness? Before I begin to tell you what I have come for, I long to hear you say the words ‘I forgive you.’ Will you give me your hand and say them?”“Mr. Temple, I beg you will tell me what is the matter. Do not think any further about that other matter. I meant what I said in the note. Tell me quick! Is my husband—has anything happened to Mr. Spafford? Is he ill? Is he hurt?”“My poor child! How can I bear to tell you? It seems terrible to put your love and trust upon another human being and then suddenly find—— But wait. Let me tell the story in my own way. No, your husband is not hurt, physically. Illness, and death even, are not the worst things that can happen to a mortal soul. It seems to me cruel, as I see you sit there so young and tender and beautiful, that I should have to hurt you by what I have to say. I come from the purest of motives to tell you a sad truth about one whoshould be nearest and dearest to you of all the earth. I beg you will look upon me kindly and believe that it hurts me to have to tell you these things. Before I begin I pray you will tell me that you forgive me for all I have to say. Put your hand in mine and say so.”Marcia had listened to this torrent of words unable to stop them, a choking sensation in her throat, fear gripping her heart. Some terrible thing had happened. Her senses refused to name the possibility. Would he never tell? What ailed the man that he wanted her hand in forgiveness? Of course she forgave him. She could not speak, and he kept urging.“I cannot talk until I have your hand as a pledge that you will forgive me and think not unkindly of me for what I am about to tell you.”He must have seen how powerfully he wrought upon her, for he continued until wild with frantic fear she stumbled toward him and laid her hand in his. He grasped it and thanked her profusely. He looked at the little cold hand in his own, and his lying tongue went on:“Mrs. Spafford, you are good and true. You have saved me from a life of uselessness, and your example and high noble character have given me new inspiration. It seems a poor gratitude that would turn and stab you to the heart. Ah! I cannot do it, and yet I must.”This was torture indeed! Marcia drew her hand sharply away and held it to her heart. She felt her brain reeling with the strain. Harry Temple saw he must go on at once or he would lose what he had gained. He had meant to keep that little hand and touch it gently with a comforting pressure as his story went on, but it would not do to frighten her or she might take sudden alarm.“Sit down,”he begged, reaching out and drawing a chair near to his own, but she stepped back and dropped into the one which she had first taken.“You know your husband has been in New York?”he began. She nodded. She could not speak.“Did you never suspect why he is there and why he stays so long?”A cold vise gripped Marcia’s heart, but though she turned white she said nothing, only looked steadily into the false eyes that glowed and burned at her like two hateful coals of fire that would scorch her soul and David’s to a horrid death.“Poor child, you cannot answer. You have trusted perfectly. You thought he was there on business connected with his writing, but did it never occur to you what a very long time he has been away and that—that there might be some other reason also which he has not told? But you must know it now, my child. I am sorry to say it, but he has been keeping it from you, and those who love you think you ought to know. Let me explain. Very soon after he reached New York he met a lady whom he used to know and admire. She is a very beautiful woman, and though she is married is still much sought after. Your husband, like the rest of her admirers, soon lost his heart completely, and his head. Strange that he could so easily forget the pearl of women he had left behind! He went to see her. He showed his affection for her in every possible way. He gave her large sums of money. In fact, to make a long story short, he is lingering in New York just to be near her. I hesitate to speak the whole truth, but he has surely done that which you cannot forgive. You with your lofty ideas—Mrs. Spafford—he has cut himself off from any right to your respect or love.“And now I am here to-day to offer to do all in my power to help you. From what I know of your husband’s movements, he is likely to return to you soon. You cannot meet him knowing that the lips that will salute you have been pressed upon the lips of another woman, and that womanyour own sister, dear Mrs. Spafford!“Ah! Now you understand, poor child. Your lipsquiver! You have reason to understand. I know, I know you cannot think what to do. Let me think for you.”His eyes were glowing and his face animated. He was using all his persuasive power, and her gaze was fixed upon him as though he had mesmerized her. She could not resist the flood-tide of his eloquence. She could only look on and seem to be gradually turning to stone—frozen with horror.He felt he had almost won, and with demoniacal skill he phrased his sentences.“I am here for that purpose. I am here to help you and for no other reason. In the stable are horses harnessed and a comfortable carriage. My advice to you is to fly from here as fast as these fleet horses can carry you. Where you go is for you to say. I should advise going to your father’s house. That I am sure is what will please him best. He is your natural refuge at such a time as this. If, however, you shrink from appearing before the eyes of the village gossips in your native town, I will take you to the home of a dear old friend of mine, hidden among the quiet hills, where you will be cared for most royally and tenderly for my sake, and where you can work out your life problem in the way that seems best to you. It is there that I am planning to take you to-night. We can easily reach there before evening if we start at once.”Marcia started to her feet in horror.“What do you mean?”she stammered in a choking voice.“I could never go anywhere with you Mr. Temple. You are a bad man! You have been telling me lies! I do not believe one word of what you have said. My husband is noble and good. If he did any of those things you say he did he had a reason for it. I shall never distrust him.”Marcia’s head was up grandly now and her voice had come back. She looked the man in the eye until he quailed, but still he sought to hold his power over her.“You poor child!”and his voice was gentleness and forbearance itself.“I do not wonder in your first horror andsurprise that you feel as you do. I anticipated this. Sit down and calm yourself and let me tell you more about it. I can prove everything that I have said. I have letters here——”and he swept his hand toward a pile of letters lying on the table; Miranda in the closet marked well the position of those letters.“All that I have said is only too true, I am sorry to say, and you must listen to me——”Marcia interrupted him, her eyes blazing, her face excited:“Mr. Temple, I shall not listen to another word you say. You are a wicked man and I was wrong to come here at all. You deceived me or I should not have come. I must go home at once.”With that she started toward the door.Harry Temple flung aside the shawl that covered his sometime sprained ankle and arose quickly, placing himself before her, forgetful of his invalid rôle:“Not so fast, my pretty lady,”he said, grasping her wrists fiercely in both his hands.“You need not think to escape so easily. You shall not leave this room except in my company. Do you not know that you are in my power? You have spent nearly an hour alone in my bedchamber, and what will your precious husband have to do with you after this is known?”CHAPTER XXIVMiranda’s time had come. She had seen it coming and was prepared.With a movement like a flash she pushed open the closet door, seized the pot of ink from the table, and before the two excited occupants of the room had time to even hear her or realize that she was near, she hurled the ink pot full into the insolent face of Harry Temple. The inkstand itself was a light affair of horn and inflicted only a slight wound, but the ink came into his eyes in a deluge blinding him completely, as Miranda had meant it should do. She had seen no other weapon of defense at hand.Harry Temple dropped Marcia’s wrists and groaned in pain, staggering back against the wall and sinking to the floor. But Miranda would not stay to see the effect of her punishment. She seized the frightened Marcia, dragged her toward the cupboard door, sweeping as she passed the pile of letters, finished and unfinished, into her apron, and closed the cupboard doors carefully behind her. Then she guided Marcia through the dark mazes of the store room to the hall, and pushing her toward the front door, whispered:“Go quick ’fore he gets his eyes open. I’ve got to go this way. Run down the road fast as you can an’ I’ll be at the meetin’ place first. Hurry, quick!”Marcia went with feet that shook so that every step seemed like to slip, but with beating heart she finally traversed the length of the piazza with a show of dignity, passed the loungers, and was out in the road. Then indeed she took courage and fairly flew.Miranda, breathless, but triumphant, went back into the kitchen:“I guess ’tain’t him after all,”she said to the interestedwoman who was putting on the potatoes to boil.“He’s real interesting to look at though. I’d like to stop and watch him longer but I must be goin’. I come out to hunt fer”—Miranda hesitated for a suitable object before this country-bred woman who well knew that strawberries were not ripe yet—“wintergreens fer Grandma,”she added cheerfully, not quite sure whether they grew around these parts,“and I must be in a hurry. Good-bye! Thank you fer the drink.”Miranda whizzed out of the door breezily, calling a good morning to one of the hostlers as she passed the barnyard, and was off through the meadows and over the fence like a bird, the package of letters rustling loud in her bosom where she had tucked them before she entered the kitchen.Neither of the two girls spoke for some minutes after they met, but continued their rapid gait, until the end of the corduroy road was in sight and they felt comparatively safe.“Wal, that feller certainly ought to be strung up an’ walluped, now, fer sure,”remarked Miranda,“an I’d like to help at the wallupin’.”Marcia’s overstrung nerves suddenly dissolved into hysterical laughter. The contrast from the tragic to the ridiculous was too much for her. She laughed until the tears rolled down her cheeks, and then she cried in earnest. Miranda stopped and put her arms about her as gently as a mother might have done, and smoothed her hair back from the hot cheek, speaking tenderly:“There now, you poor pretty little flower. Jest you cry ’s hard ’s you want to. I know how good it makes you feel to cry. I’ve done it many a time up garret where nobody couldn’t hear me. That old Satan, he won’t trouble you fer a good long spell again. When he gets his evil eyes open, if he ever does, he’ll be glad to get out o’ these parts or I miss my guess. Now don’t you worry no more. He can’t hurt you one mite. An’ don’t you think a thing about what he said. He’s a great big liar, that’s what he is.”“Miranda, you saved me. Yes, you did. I never can thank you enough. If you hadn’t come and helped me something awful might have happened!”Marcia shuddered and began to sob convulsively again.“Nonsense!”said Miranda, pleased.“I didn’t do a thing worth mentioning. Now you jest wipe your eyes and chirk up. We’ve got to go through town an’ you don’t want folks to wonder what’s up.”Miranda led Marcia up to the spring whose location had been known to her all the time of course, and Marcia bathed her eyes and was soon looking more like herself, though there was a nervous tremor to her lips now and then. But her companion talked gaily, and tried to keep her mind from going over the events of the morning.When they reached the village Miranda suggested they go home by the back street, slipping through a field of spring wheat and climbing the garden fence. She had a mind to keep out of her grandmother’s sight for a while longer.“I might’s well be hung for a sheep’s a lamb,”she remarked, as she slid in at Marcia’s kitchen door in the shadow of the morning-glory vines.“I’m goin’ to stay here a spell an’ get you some dinner while you go upstairs an’ lie down. You don’t need to go back to your aunt’s till near night, an’ you can wait till dusk an’ I’ll go with you. Then you needn’t be out alone at all. I know how you feel, but I don’t believe you need worry. He’ll be done with you now forever, er I’ll miss my guess. Now you go lie down till I make a cup o’ tea.”Marcia was glad to be alone, and soon fell asleep, worn out with the excitement, her brain too weary to go over the awful occurrences of the morning. That would come later. Now her body demanded rest.Miranda, coming upstairs with the tea, tiptoed in and looked at her,—one round arm thrown over her head, and her smooth peachy cheek resting against it. Miranda,homely, and with no hope of ever attaining any of the beautiful things of life, loved unselfishly this girl who had what she had not, and longed with all her heart to comfort and protect the sweet young thing who seemed so ill-prepared to protect herself. She stooped over the sleeper for one yearning moment, and touched her hair lightly with her lips. She felt a great desire to kiss the soft round cheek, but was afraid of wakening her. Then she took the cup of tea and tiptoed out again, her eyes shining with satisfaction. She had a self-imposed task before her, and was well pleased that Marcia slept, for it gave her plenty of opportunity to carry out her plans.She went quickly to David’s library, opened drawers and doors in the desk until she found writing materials, and sat down to work. She had a letter to write, and a letter, to Miranda, was the achievement of a lifetime. She did not much expect to ever have to write another. She plunged into her subject at once.“Dear Mr. David:”(she was afraid that sounded a little stiff, but she felt it was almost too familiar to say“David”as he was always called.)“I ain’t much on letters, but this one has got to be writ. Something happened and somebody’s got to tell you about it. I’m most sure she wont, and nobody else knows cept me.“Last night ’bout dark I went out to feed the chickens, an’ I see that nimshi Harry Temple skulkin round your house. It was all dark there, an he walked in the side gate and tried to peek in the winders, only the shades was down an he couldn’t see a thing. I thought he was up to some mischief so I followed him down the street a piece till he turned down the old corduroy road. It was dark by then an I come home, but I was on the watchout this morning, and after Mis’ Spafford come down to the house I heard a horse gallopin by an I looked out an saw a boy get off an take a letter to the door an ride away, an pretty soon all in a hurry your wife come out tyin her bonnet and hurryin along lookin scared. I grabbed my sunbonnet anclipped after her, but she went so fast I didn’t get up to her till she got on the old corduroy road. She was awful scared lookin an she didn’t want me much I see, but pretty soon she up an told me she had a note sayin there was a messenger with news from you out to the old Green Tavern. He had a accident an couldn’t come no further. He wanted her to come alone cause the business was private, so I stayed down by the turn of the road till she got in an then I went cross lots an round to the kitchen an called on Mis’ Green a spell. She was tellin me about her boarders an I told her I thought mebbe one of em was a friend o’ Hannah Heath’s so she said I might peek through the key hole of the cubberd an see. She was busy so I went alone.“Well sir, I jest wish you’d been there. That lying nimshi was jest goin on the sweetest, as respectful an nice a thankin your wife fer comin, an excusin himself fer sendin fer her, and sayin he couldn’t bear to tell her what he’d come fer, an pretty soon when she was scared ’s death he up an told her a awful fib bout you an a woman called Kate, whoever she is, an he jest poured the words out fast so she couldn’t speak, an he said things about you he shouldn’t uv, an you could see he was makin it up as he went along, an he said he had proof. So he pointed at a pile of letters on the table an I eyed em good through the hole in the door. Pretty soon he ups and perposes that he carry her off in a carriage he has all ready, and takes her to a friend of his, so she wont be here when you come home, cause you’re so bad, and she gets up looking like she wanted to scream only she didn’t dare, and she says he dont tell the truth, it wasn’t so any of it, and if it was it was all right anyway, that you had some reason, an she wouldn’t go a step with him anywhere. An then he forgets all about the lame ankle he had kept covered up on a chair pertendin it was hurt fallin off his horse when the coach brought him all the way fer I asked Mis’ Green—and he ketches her by the wrists, and he says she can’t go without him, and she needn’t be in such a hurry fer you wouldn’t have no more to do with her anyway after her being shut up there with him so long, an then she looked jest like she was going to faint, an I bust out through the door an ketched up the ink pot, it want heavy enough tokill him, an I slung it at him, an the ink went square in his eyes, an we slipped through the closet an got away quick fore anybody knew a thing.“I brought all the letters along so here they be. I havn’t read a one, cause I thought mebbe you’d ruther not. She aint seen em neither. She dont know I’ve got em. I hid em in my dress. She’s all wore out with cryin and hurryin, and being scared, so she’s upstairs now asleep, an she dont know I’m writing. I’m goin to send this off fore she knows, fer I think she wouldn’t tell you fear of worryin you. I’ll look after her es well’s I can till you get back, but I think that feller ought to be strung up. But you’ll know what to do, so no more at present from your obedient servent,“Miranda Griscom.”Having at last succeeded in sealing her packet to her satisfaction and the diminishing of the stick of sealing wax she had found in the drawer, Miranda slid out the front door, and by a detour went to David Spafford’s office.“Good afternoon, Mr. Clark,”she said to the clerk importantly.“Grandma sends her respecks and wants to know ef you’d be so kind as to back this letter fer her to Mr. David Spafford. She’s writin’ to him on business an’ she don’t rightly know his street an’ number in New York.”Mr. Clark willingly wrote the address, and Miranda took it to the post office, and sped back to Marcia, happy in the accomplishment of her purpose.In the same mail bag that brought Miranda’s package came a letter from Aunt Clarinda. David’s face lit up with a pleased smile. Her letters were so infrequent that they were a rare pleasure. He put aside the thick package written in his clerk’s hand. It was doubtless some business papers and could wait.Aunt Clarinda wrote in a fine old script that in spite of her eighty years was clear and legible. She told about the beauty of the weather, and how Amelia and Hortense were almost done with the house cleaning, and how Marcia had beengoing to their house every day putting it in order. Then she added a paragraph which David, knowing the old lady well, understood to be theraison d’êtreof the whole letter:“I think your wife misses you very much, Davie, she looks sort of peeked and sad. It is hard on her being separated from you so long this first year. Men don’t think of those things, but it is lonely for a young thing like her here with three old women, and you know Hortense and Amelia never try to make it lively for anybody. I have been watching her, and I think if I were you I would let the business finish itself up as soon as possible and hurry back to put a bit of cheer into that child. She’s whiter than she ought to be.”David read it over three times in astonishment with growing, mingled feelings which he could not quite analyze.Poor Aunt Clarinda! Of course she did not understand the situation, and equally of course she was mistaken. Marcia was not sighing for him, though it might be dull for her at the old house. He ought to have thought of that; and a great burden suddenly settled down upon him. He was not doing right by Marcia. It could not be himself of course that Marcia was missing, if indeed Aunt Clarinda was right and she was worried about anything. Perhaps something had occurred to trouble her. Could that snake of a Temple have turned up again? No, he felt reasonably sure he would have heard of that, besides he saw him not long ago on the street at a distance. Could it be some boy-lover at home whose memory came to trouble her? Or had she discovered what a sacrifice she had made of her young life? Whatever it was, it was careless and cruel in him to have left her alone with his aunts all this time. He was a selfish man, he told himself, to have accepted her quiet little sacrifice of all for him. He read the letter over again, and suddenly there came to him a wish that Marciawasmissing him. It seemed a pleasant thought to have her care. He had been trying to train himself to the fact that no one would ever care for him again,but now it seemed dear and desirable that his sweet young companion should like to have him back. He had a vision of home as it had been, so pleasant and restful, always the food that he liked, always the thought for his wishes, and he felt condemned. He had not noticed or cared. Had she thought him ungrateful?He read the letter over again, noting every mention of his wife in the account of the daily living at home. He was searching for some clue that would give him more information about her. And when he reached the last paragraph about missing him, a little tingle of pleasure shot through him at the thought. He did not understand it. After all she was his, and if it was possible he must help to make up to her for what she had lost in giving herself to him. If the thought of doing so brought a sense of satisfaction to him that was unexpected, he was not to blame in any wise.Since his interview with Kate, and the terrible night of agony through which he had passed, David had plunged into his business with all his might. Whenever a thought of Kate came he banished it if possible, and if it would not go he got out his writing materials and went to work at an article, to absorb his mind. He had several times arisen in the night to write because he could not sleep, and must think.When he was obliged to be in New York he had steadily kept away from the house where Kate lived, and never walked through the streets without occupying his mind as fully as possible so that he should not chance to see her. In this way his sorrow was growing old without having been worn out, and he was really regaining a large amount of his former happiness and interest in life. Not so often now did the vision of Kate come to trouble him. He thought she was still his one ideal of womanly beauty and grace and perfection of course, and always would be, but she was not for him to think upon any more. A strong true man he was growing, out of his sorrow. And now when the thought of Marcia came tohim with a certain sweetness he could be glad that it was so, and not resent it. Of course no one could ever take the place of Kate, that was impossible.So reflecting, with a pleasant smile upon his face, he opened Miranda’s epistle.Puzzled and surprised he began to read the strange chirography, and as he read his face darkened and he drew his brows in a heavy frown.“The scoundrel!”he muttered as he turned the sheet. Then as he went on his look grew anxious. He scanned the page quickly as if he would gather the meaning from the crooked ill-spelled words without taking them one by one. But he had to go slowly, for Miranda had not written with as much plainness as haste. He fairly held his breath when he thought of the gentle girl in the hands of the unscrupulous man of the world. A terrible fear gripped his heart, Marcia, little Marcia, so sweet and pure and good. A vision of her face as she lay asleep in the woods came between him and the paper. Why had he left her unprotected all these months? Fool that he was! She was worth more than all the railroads put together. As if his own life was in the balance, he read on, growing sick with horror. Poor child! what had she thought? And how had his own sin and weakness been found out, or was it merely Harry Temple’s wicked heart that had evolved these stories? The letter smote him with terrible accusation, and all at once it was fearful to him to think that Marcia had heard such things about him. When he came to her trust in him he groaned aloud and buried his face in the letter, and then raised it quickly to read to the end.When he had finished he rose with sudden determination to pack his carpet-bag and go home at once. Marcia needed him, and he felt a strong desire to be near her, to see her and know she was safe. It was overwhelming. He had not known he could ever feel strongly again. He must confess his own weakness of course, and he would. She should know all and know that she might trust his after all.But the motion of rising had sent the other papers to the floor, and in falling the bundle of letters that Miranda had enclosed, scattered about him. He stooped to pick them up and saw his own name written in Kate’s handwriting. Old association held him, and wondering, fearful, not wholly glad to see it, he picked up the letter. It was an epistle of Kate’s, written in intimate style to Harry Temple and speaking of himself in terms of the utmost contempt. She even stooped to detail to Harry an account of her own triumph on that miserable morning when he had taken her in his arms and kissed her. There were expressions in the letter that showed her own wicked heart, as nothing else could ever have done, to David. As he read, his soul growing sick within him,—read one letter after another, and saw how she had plotted with this bad man to wreck the life of her young sister for her own triumph and revenge,—the beautiful woman whom he had loved, and whom he had thought beautiful within as well as without, crumbled into dust before him. When he looked up at last with white face and firmly set lips, he found that his soul was free forever from the fetters that had bound him to her.He went to the fireplace and laid the pile of letters among the embers, blowing them into a blaze, and watched them until they were eaten up by the fire and nothing remained but dead grey ashes. The thought came to him that that was like his old love. It was burnt out. There had not been the right kind of fuel to feed it. Kate was worthless, but his own self was alive, and please God he would yet see better days. He would go home at once to the child wife who needed him, and whom now he might love as she should be loved. The thought became wondrously sweet to him as he rapidly threw the things into his travelling bag and went about arrangements for his trip home. He determined that if he ever came to New York again Marcia should come with him.

CHAPTER XXIIIMarcia had gone down to her own house the next morning very early. She had hoped for a letter but none had come. Her soul was in torment between her attempt to keep out of her mind the hateful things Hannah Heath had said, and reproaching herself for what seemed to her her unseemly feeling toward David, who loved another and could never love her. It was not a part of her life-dream to love one who belonged to another. Yet her heart was his and she was beginning to know that everything belonging to him was dear to her. She went and sat in his place at the table, she touched with tenderness the books upon his desk that he had used before he went away, she went up to his room and laid her lips for one precious daring instant upon his pillow, and then drew back with wildly beating heart ashamed of her emotion. She knelt beside his bed and prayed:“Oh, God, I love him, I love him! I cannot help it!”as if she would apologize for herself, and then she hugged the thought of her love to herself, feeling its sweet pain drift through her like some delicious agony. Her love had come through sorrow to her, and was not as she would have had it could she have chosen. It brought no ray of happy hope for the future, save just the happiness of loving in secret, and of doing for the object loved, with no thought of a returned affection.Then she went slowly down the stairs, trying to think how it would seem when David came back. He had been so long gone that it seemed as if perhaps he might never return. She felt that it had been no part of the spirit of her contract with David that she should render to him this wild sweet love that he had expected Kate to give. He had not wanted it. He had only wanted a wife in name.Then the color would sweep over her face in a crimson drift and leave it painfully white, and she would glide to the piano like a ghost of her former self and play some sad sweet strain, and sometimes sing.She had no heart for her dear old woods in these days. She had tried it one day in spring; slipped over the back fence and away through the ploughed field where the sea of silver oats had surged, and up to the hillside and the woods; but she was so reminded of David that it only brought heart aches and tears. She wondered if it was because she was getting old that the hillside did not seem so joyous now, and she did not care to look up into the sky just for the pure joy of sky and air and clouds, nor to listen to the branches whisper to the robins nesting. She stooped and picked a great handful of spring beauties, but they did not seem to give her pleasure, and by and by she dropped them from listless fingers and walked sedately down to the house once more.On this morning she did not even care to play. She went into the parlor and touched a few notes, but her heart was heavy and sad. Life was growing too complex.Last week there had come a letter from Harry Temple. It had startled her when it arrived. She feared it was some ill-news about David, coming as it did from New York and being written in a strange hand.It had been a plea for forgiveness, representing that the writer had experienced nothing but deep repentance and sorrow since the time he had seen her last. He set forth his case in a masterly way, with little touching facts of his childhood, and lonely upbringing, with no mother to guide. He told her that her noble action toward him had but made him revere her the more, and that, in short, she had made a new creature of him by refusing to return his kiss that day, and leaving him alone with so severe a rebuke. He felt that if all women were so good and true men would be a differentrace, and now he looked up to her as one might look up to an angel, and he felt he could never be happy again on this earth until he had her written word of forgiveness. With that he felt he could live a new life, and she must rest assured that he would never offer other than reverence to any woman again. He further added that his action had not intended any insult to her, that he was merely expressing his natural admiration for a spirit so good and true, and that his soul was innocent of any intention of evil. With sophistry in the use of which he was an adept, he closed his epistle, fully clearing himself, and assuring her that he could have made her understand it that day if she had not left so suddenly, and he had not been almost immediately called away to the dying bed of his dear cousin. This contradictory letter had troubled Marcia greatly. She was keen enough to see that his logic was at fault, and that the two pages of his letter did not hang together, but one thing was plain, that he wished her forgiveness. The Bible said that one must forgive, and surely it was right to let him know that she did, though when she thought of the fright he had given her it was hard to do. Still, it was right, and if he was so unhappy, perhaps she had better let him know. She would rather have waited until David returned to consult him in the matter, but the letter seemed so insistent that she had finally written a stiff little note, in formal language,“Mrs. Spafford sends herewith her full and free forgiveness to Mr. Harry Temple, and promises to think no more of the matter.”She would have liked to consult some one. She almost thought of taking Aunt Clarinda into her confidence, but decided that she might not understand. So she finally sent off the brief missive, and let her troubled thoughts wander after it more than once.She was standing by the window looking out into the yard perplexing herself over this again when there came a loud knocking at the front door. She started, half frightened,for the knock sounded through the empty house so insistently. It seemed like trouble coming. She felt nervous as she went down the hall.It was only a little urchin, barefoot, and tow-headed. He had ridden an old mare to the door, and left her nosing at the dusty grass. He brought her a letter. Again her heart fluttered excitedly. Who could be writing to her? It was not David. Why did the handwriting look familiar? It could not be from any one at home. Father? Mother? No, it was no one she knew. She tore it open, and the boy jumped on his horse and was off down the street before she realized that he was gone.“Dear Madam:”the letter read,“I bring you news of your husband, and having met with an accident I am unable to come further. You will find me at the Green Tavern two miles out on the corduroy road. As the business is private, please come alone.“A Messenger.”Marcia trembled so that she sat down on the stairs. A sudden weakness went over her like a wave, and the hall grew dark around her as though she were going to faint. But she did not. She was strong and well and had never fainted in her life. She rallied in a moment and tried to think. Something had happened to David. Something dreadful, perhaps, and she must go at once and find out. Still it must be something mysterious, for the man had said it was private. Of course that meant David would not want it known. David had intended that the man would come to her and tell her by herself. She must go. There was nothing else to be done. She must go at once and get rid of this awful suspense. It was a good day for the message to have come, for she had brought her lunch expecting to do some spring cleaning. David had been expected home soon, and she liked to make a bustle of preparation as if he might come in any day, for it kept up her good cheer.Having resolved to go she got up at once, closed the doors and windows, put on her bonnet and went out down the street toward the old corduroy road. It frightened her to think what might be at the end of her journey. Possibly David himself, hurt or dying, and he had sent for her in this way that she might break the news gently to his aunts. As she walked along she conjured various forms of trouble that might have come to him. Now and then she would try to take a cheerful view, saying to herself that David might have needed more important papers, papers which he would not like everyone to know about, and had sent by special messenger to her to get them. Then her face would brighten and her step grow more brisk. But always would come the dull thud of possibility of something more serious. Her heart beat so fast sometimes that she was forced to lessen her speed to get her breath, for though she was going through town, and must necessarily walk somewhat soberly lest she call attention to herself, she found that her nerves and imagination were fairly running ahead, and waiting impatiently for her feet to catch up at every turning place.At last she came to the corduroy road—a long stretch of winding way overlaid with logs which made an unpleasant path. Most of the way was swampy, and bordered in some places by thick, dark woods. Marcia sped on from log to log, with a nervous feeling that she must step on each one or her errand would not be successful. She was not afraid of the loneliness, only of what might be coming at the end of her journey.But suddenly, in the densest part of the wood, she became conscious of footsteps echoing hers, and a chill laid hold upon her. She turned her head and there, wildly gesticulating and running after her, was Miranda!Annoyed, and impatient to be on her way, and wondering what to do with Miranda, or what she could possibly want, Marcia stopped to wait for her.“I thought—as you was goin’ ’long my way”—puffed Miranda,“I’d jes’ step along beside you. You don’t mind, do you?”Marcia looked troubled. If she should say she did then Miranda would think it queer and perhaps suspect something.She tried to smile and ask how far Miranda was going.“Oh, I’m goin’ to hunt fer wild strawberries,”said the girl nonchalantly clattering a big tin pail.“Isn’t it early yet for strawberries?”questioned Marcia.“Well, mebbe, an’ then ag’in mebbe ’tain’t. I know a place I’m goin’ to look anyway. Are you goin’ ’s fur ’s the Green Tavern?”Miranda’s bright eyes looked her through and through, and Marcia’s truthful ones could not evade. Suddenly as she looked into the girl’s homely face, filled with a kind of blind adoration, her heart yearned for counsel in this trying situation. She was reminded of Miranda’s helpfulness the time she ran away to the woods, and the care with which she had guarded the whole matter so that no one ever heard of it. An impulse came to her to confide in Miranda. She was a girl of sharp common sense, and would perhaps be able to help with her advice. At least she could get comfort from merely telling her trouble and anxiety.“Miranda,”she said,“can you keep a secret?”The girl nodded.“Well, I’m going to tell you something, just because I am so troubled and I feel as if it would do me good to tell it.”She smiled and Miranda answered the smile with much satisfaction and no surprise. Miranda had come for this, though she did not expect her way to be so easy.“I’ll be mum as an oyster,”said Miranda.“You jest tell me anything you please. You needn’t be afraid Hannah Heath’ll know a grain about it. She’n’ I are two people. I know when to shut up.”“Well, Miranda, I’m in great perplexity and anxiety.I’ve just had a note from a messenger my husband has sent asking me to come out to that Green Tavern you were talking about. He was sent to me with some message and has had an accident so he couldn’t come. It kind of frightened me to think what might be the matter. I’m glad you are going this way because it keeps me from thinking about it. Are we nearly there? I never went out this road so far before.”“It ain’t fur,”said Miranda as if that were a minor matter.“I’ll go right along in with you, then you needn’t feel lonely. I guess likely it’s business. Don’t you worry.”The tone was reassuring, but Marcia’s face looked troubled.“No, I guess that won’t do, Miranda, for the note says it is a private matter and I must come alone. You know Mr. Spafford has matters to write about that are very important, railroads, and such things, and sometimes he doesn’t care to have any one get hold of his ideas before they appear in the paper. His enemies might use them to stop the plans of the great improvements he is writing about.”“Let me see that note!”demanded Miranda.“Got it with you?”Marcia hesitated. Perhaps she ought not to show it, and yet there was nothing in the note but what she had already told the girl, and she felt sure she would not breathe a word to a living soul after her promise. She handed Miranda the letter, and they stopped a moment while she slowly spelled it out. Miranda was no scholar. Marcia watched her face eagerly, as if to gather a ray of hope from it, but she was puzzled by Miranda’s look. A kind of satisfaction had overspread her homely countenance.“Should you think from that that David was hurt—or ill—or—or—killed—or anything?”She asked the question as if Miranda were a wizard, and hung anxiously upon her answer.“Naw, I don’t reckon so!”said Miranda.“Don’t you worry. David’s all right somehow. I’ll take care o’ you. You go ’long up and see what’s the business, an’ I’ll wait here out o’ sight o’ the tavern. Likely’s not he might take a notionnot to tell you ef he see me come along with you. You jest go ahead, and I’ll be on hand when you get through. If you need me fer anything you jest holler out ‘Randy!’ good and loud an’ I’ll hear you. Guess I’ll set on this log. The tavern’s jest round that bend in the road. Naw, you needn’t thank me. This is a real pretty mornin’ to set an’ rest. Good-bye.”Marcia hurried on, glancing back happily at her protector in a calico sunbonnet seated stolidly on a log with her tin pail beside her.Poor stupid Miranda! Of course she could not understand what a comfort it was to have confided her trouble. Marcia went up to the tavern with almost a smile on her face, though her heart began to beat wildly as a slatternly girl led her into a big room at the right of the hall.As Marcia disappeared behind the bend in the road, Miranda stealthily stole along the edge of the woods, till she stood hidden behind a clump of alders where she could peer out and watch Marcia until she reached the tavern and passed safely by the row of lounging, smoking men, and on into the doorway. Then Miranda waited just an instant to look in all directions, and sped across the road, mounting the fence and on through two meadows, and the barnyard to the kitchen door of the tavern.“Mornin’! Mis’ Green,”she said to the slovenly looking woman who sat by the table peeling potatoes.“Mind givin’ me a drink o’ water? I’m terrible thirsty, and seemed like I couldn’t find the spring. Didn’t thare used to be a spring ’tween here’n town?”“Goodness sakes! Randy! Where’d you come from? Water! Jes’ help yourself. There’s the bucket jes’ from the spring five minutes since, an’ there’s the gourd hanging up on the wall. I can’t get up, I’m that busy. Twelve to dinner to-day, an’ only me to do the cookin’. ’Melia she’s got to be upstairs helpin’ at the bar.”“Who all you got here?”questioned Miranda as she took a draught from the old gourd.“Well, got a gentleman from New York fur one. He’s real pretty. Quite a beau. His clo’es are that nice you’d think he was goin’ to court. He’s that particular ’bout his eatin’ I feel flustered. Nothin’ would do but he hed to hev a downstairs room. He said he didn’t like goin’ upstairs. He don’t look sickly, neither.”“Mebbe he’s had a accident an’ lamed himself,”suggested Miranda cunningly.“Heard o’ any accidents? How’d he come? Coach or horseback?”“Coach,”said Mrs. Green.“Why do you ask? Got any friends in New York?”“Not many,”responded Miranda importantly,“but my cousin Hannah Heath has. You know she’s ben up there for a spell visitin’ an’ they say there was lots of gentlemen in love with her. There’s one in particular used to come round a good deal. It might be him come round to see ef it’s true Hannah’s goin’ to get married to Lem Skinner. Know what this fellow’s name is?”“You don’t say! Well now it might be. No, I don’t rightly remember his name. Seems though it was something like Church er Chapel. ’Melia could tell ye, but she’s busy.”“Where’s he at? Mebbe I could get a glimpse o’ him. I’d jest like to know ef he was comin’ to bother our Hannah.”“Well now. Mebbe you could get a sight o’ him. There’s a cupboard between his room an’ the room back. It has a door both sides. Mebbe ef you was to slip in there you might see him through the latch hole. I ain’t usin’ that back room fer anythin’ but a store-room this spring, so look out you don’t stumble over nothin’ when you go in fer it’s dark as a pocket. You go right ’long in. I reckon you’ll find the way. Yes, it’s on the right hand side o’ the hall. I’ve got to set here an’ finish these potatoes er dinner’ll be late. I’d like to know real well ef he’s one o’ Hannah Heath’s beaux.”Miranda needed no second bidding. She slipped through the hall and store room, and in a moment stood before the door of the closet. Softly she opened it, and stepped in, lifting her feet cautiously, for the closet floor seemed full of old boots and shoes.It was dark in there, very dark, and only one slat of light stabbed the blackness coming through the irregular shape of the latch hole. She could hear voices in low tones speaking on the other side of the door. Gradually her eyes grew accustomed to the light and one by one objects came out of the shadows and looked at her. A white pitcher with a broken nose, a row of bottles, a bunch of seed corn with the husks braided together and hung on a nail, an old coat on another nail.Down on her knees beside the crack of light went Miranda. First her eye and then her ear were applied to the small aperture. She could see nothing but a table directly in front of the door about a foot away on which were quills, paper, and a large horn inkstand filled with ink. Some one evidently had been writing, for a page was half done, and the pen was laid down beside a word.The limits of the latch hole made it impossible for Miranda to make out any more. She applied her ear and could hear a man’s voice talking in low insinuating tones, but she could make little of what was said. It drove her fairly frantic to think that she was losing time. Miranda had no mind to be balked in her purpose. She meant to find out who was in that room and what was going on. She felt a righteous interest in it.Her eyes could see quite plainly now in the dark closet. There was a big button on the door. She no sooner discovered it than she put up her hand and tried to turn it. It was tight and made a slight squeak in turning. She stopped but the noise seemed to have no effect upon the evenly modulated tones inside. Cautiously she moved the button again,holding the latch firmly in her other hand lest the door should suddenly fly open. It was an exciting moment when at last the button was turned entirely away from the door frame and the lifted latch swung free in Miranda’s hand. The door opened outward. If it were allowed to go it would probably strike against the table. Miranda only allowed it to open a crack. She could hear words now, and the voice reminded her of something unpleasant. The least little bit more she dared open the door, and she could see, as she had expected, Marcia’s bonnet and shoulder cape as she sat at the other side of the room. This then was the room of the messenger who had sent for Mrs. Spafford so peremptorily. The next thing was to discover the identity of the messenger. Miranda had suspicions.The night before she had seen a man lurking near the Spafford house when she went out in the garden to feed the chickens. She had watched him from behind the lilac bush, and when he had finally gone away she had followed him some distance until he turned into the old corduroy road and was lost in the gathering dusk. The man she had seen before, and had reason to suspect. It was not for nothing that she had braved her grandmother and gone hunting wild strawberries out of season.With the caution of a creature of the forest Miranda opened the door an inch further, and applied her eye to the latch hole again. The man’s head was in full range of her eye then, and her suspicion proved true.When Marcia entered the big room and the heavy oak door closed behind her her heart seemed almost choking her, but she tried with all her might to be calm. She was to know the worst now.On the other side of the room in a large arm-chair, with his feet extended on another and covered by a travelling shawl, reclined a man. Marcia went toward him eagerly, and then stopped:“Mr. Temple!”There was horror, fear, reproach in the way she spoke it.“I know you are astonished, Mrs. Spafford, that the messenger should be one so unworthy, and let me say at the beginning that I am more thankful than I can express that your letter of forgiveness reached me before I was obliged to start on my sorrowful commission. I beg you will sit down and be as comfortable as you can while I explain further. Pardon my not rising. I have met with a bad sprain caused by falling from my horse on the way, and was barely able to reach this stopping place. My ankle is swollen so badly that I cannot step upon my foot.”Marcia, with white face, moved to the chair he indicated near him, and sat down. The one thought his speech had conveyed to her had come through those words“my sorrowful commission.”She felt the need of sitting down, for her limbs would no longer bear her up, and she felt she must immediately know what was the matter.“Mrs. Spafford, may I ask you once more to speak your forgiveness? Before I begin to tell you what I have come for, I long to hear you say the words ‘I forgive you.’ Will you give me your hand and say them?”“Mr. Temple, I beg you will tell me what is the matter. Do not think any further about that other matter. I meant what I said in the note. Tell me quick! Is my husband—has anything happened to Mr. Spafford? Is he ill? Is he hurt?”“My poor child! How can I bear to tell you? It seems terrible to put your love and trust upon another human being and then suddenly find—— But wait. Let me tell the story in my own way. No, your husband is not hurt, physically. Illness, and death even, are not the worst things that can happen to a mortal soul. It seems to me cruel, as I see you sit there so young and tender and beautiful, that I should have to hurt you by what I have to say. I come from the purest of motives to tell you a sad truth about one whoshould be nearest and dearest to you of all the earth. I beg you will look upon me kindly and believe that it hurts me to have to tell you these things. Before I begin I pray you will tell me that you forgive me for all I have to say. Put your hand in mine and say so.”Marcia had listened to this torrent of words unable to stop them, a choking sensation in her throat, fear gripping her heart. Some terrible thing had happened. Her senses refused to name the possibility. Would he never tell? What ailed the man that he wanted her hand in forgiveness? Of course she forgave him. She could not speak, and he kept urging.“I cannot talk until I have your hand as a pledge that you will forgive me and think not unkindly of me for what I am about to tell you.”He must have seen how powerfully he wrought upon her, for he continued until wild with frantic fear she stumbled toward him and laid her hand in his. He grasped it and thanked her profusely. He looked at the little cold hand in his own, and his lying tongue went on:“Mrs. Spafford, you are good and true. You have saved me from a life of uselessness, and your example and high noble character have given me new inspiration. It seems a poor gratitude that would turn and stab you to the heart. Ah! I cannot do it, and yet I must.”This was torture indeed! Marcia drew her hand sharply away and held it to her heart. She felt her brain reeling with the strain. Harry Temple saw he must go on at once or he would lose what he had gained. He had meant to keep that little hand and touch it gently with a comforting pressure as his story went on, but it would not do to frighten her or she might take sudden alarm.“Sit down,”he begged, reaching out and drawing a chair near to his own, but she stepped back and dropped into the one which she had first taken.“You know your husband has been in New York?”he began. She nodded. She could not speak.“Did you never suspect why he is there and why he stays so long?”A cold vise gripped Marcia’s heart, but though she turned white she said nothing, only looked steadily into the false eyes that glowed and burned at her like two hateful coals of fire that would scorch her soul and David’s to a horrid death.“Poor child, you cannot answer. You have trusted perfectly. You thought he was there on business connected with his writing, but did it never occur to you what a very long time he has been away and that—that there might be some other reason also which he has not told? But you must know it now, my child. I am sorry to say it, but he has been keeping it from you, and those who love you think you ought to know. Let me explain. Very soon after he reached New York he met a lady whom he used to know and admire. She is a very beautiful woman, and though she is married is still much sought after. Your husband, like the rest of her admirers, soon lost his heart completely, and his head. Strange that he could so easily forget the pearl of women he had left behind! He went to see her. He showed his affection for her in every possible way. He gave her large sums of money. In fact, to make a long story short, he is lingering in New York just to be near her. I hesitate to speak the whole truth, but he has surely done that which you cannot forgive. You with your lofty ideas—Mrs. Spafford—he has cut himself off from any right to your respect or love.“And now I am here to-day to offer to do all in my power to help you. From what I know of your husband’s movements, he is likely to return to you soon. You cannot meet him knowing that the lips that will salute you have been pressed upon the lips of another woman, and that womanyour own sister, dear Mrs. Spafford!“Ah! Now you understand, poor child. Your lipsquiver! You have reason to understand. I know, I know you cannot think what to do. Let me think for you.”His eyes were glowing and his face animated. He was using all his persuasive power, and her gaze was fixed upon him as though he had mesmerized her. She could not resist the flood-tide of his eloquence. She could only look on and seem to be gradually turning to stone—frozen with horror.He felt he had almost won, and with demoniacal skill he phrased his sentences.“I am here for that purpose. I am here to help you and for no other reason. In the stable are horses harnessed and a comfortable carriage. My advice to you is to fly from here as fast as these fleet horses can carry you. Where you go is for you to say. I should advise going to your father’s house. That I am sure is what will please him best. He is your natural refuge at such a time as this. If, however, you shrink from appearing before the eyes of the village gossips in your native town, I will take you to the home of a dear old friend of mine, hidden among the quiet hills, where you will be cared for most royally and tenderly for my sake, and where you can work out your life problem in the way that seems best to you. It is there that I am planning to take you to-night. We can easily reach there before evening if we start at once.”Marcia started to her feet in horror.“What do you mean?”she stammered in a choking voice.“I could never go anywhere with you Mr. Temple. You are a bad man! You have been telling me lies! I do not believe one word of what you have said. My husband is noble and good. If he did any of those things you say he did he had a reason for it. I shall never distrust him.”Marcia’s head was up grandly now and her voice had come back. She looked the man in the eye until he quailed, but still he sought to hold his power over her.“You poor child!”and his voice was gentleness and forbearance itself.“I do not wonder in your first horror andsurprise that you feel as you do. I anticipated this. Sit down and calm yourself and let me tell you more about it. I can prove everything that I have said. I have letters here——”and he swept his hand toward a pile of letters lying on the table; Miranda in the closet marked well the position of those letters.“All that I have said is only too true, I am sorry to say, and you must listen to me——”Marcia interrupted him, her eyes blazing, her face excited:“Mr. Temple, I shall not listen to another word you say. You are a wicked man and I was wrong to come here at all. You deceived me or I should not have come. I must go home at once.”With that she started toward the door.Harry Temple flung aside the shawl that covered his sometime sprained ankle and arose quickly, placing himself before her, forgetful of his invalid rôle:“Not so fast, my pretty lady,”he said, grasping her wrists fiercely in both his hands.“You need not think to escape so easily. You shall not leave this room except in my company. Do you not know that you are in my power? You have spent nearly an hour alone in my bedchamber, and what will your precious husband have to do with you after this is known?”

Marcia had gone down to her own house the next morning very early. She had hoped for a letter but none had come. Her soul was in torment between her attempt to keep out of her mind the hateful things Hannah Heath had said, and reproaching herself for what seemed to her her unseemly feeling toward David, who loved another and could never love her. It was not a part of her life-dream to love one who belonged to another. Yet her heart was his and she was beginning to know that everything belonging to him was dear to her. She went and sat in his place at the table, she touched with tenderness the books upon his desk that he had used before he went away, she went up to his room and laid her lips for one precious daring instant upon his pillow, and then drew back with wildly beating heart ashamed of her emotion. She knelt beside his bed and prayed:“Oh, God, I love him, I love him! I cannot help it!”as if she would apologize for herself, and then she hugged the thought of her love to herself, feeling its sweet pain drift through her like some delicious agony. Her love had come through sorrow to her, and was not as she would have had it could she have chosen. It brought no ray of happy hope for the future, save just the happiness of loving in secret, and of doing for the object loved, with no thought of a returned affection.

Then she went slowly down the stairs, trying to think how it would seem when David came back. He had been so long gone that it seemed as if perhaps he might never return. She felt that it had been no part of the spirit of her contract with David that she should render to him this wild sweet love that he had expected Kate to give. He had not wanted it. He had only wanted a wife in name.

Then the color would sweep over her face in a crimson drift and leave it painfully white, and she would glide to the piano like a ghost of her former self and play some sad sweet strain, and sometimes sing.

She had no heart for her dear old woods in these days. She had tried it one day in spring; slipped over the back fence and away through the ploughed field where the sea of silver oats had surged, and up to the hillside and the woods; but she was so reminded of David that it only brought heart aches and tears. She wondered if it was because she was getting old that the hillside did not seem so joyous now, and she did not care to look up into the sky just for the pure joy of sky and air and clouds, nor to listen to the branches whisper to the robins nesting. She stooped and picked a great handful of spring beauties, but they did not seem to give her pleasure, and by and by she dropped them from listless fingers and walked sedately down to the house once more.

On this morning she did not even care to play. She went into the parlor and touched a few notes, but her heart was heavy and sad. Life was growing too complex.

Last week there had come a letter from Harry Temple. It had startled her when it arrived. She feared it was some ill-news about David, coming as it did from New York and being written in a strange hand.

It had been a plea for forgiveness, representing that the writer had experienced nothing but deep repentance and sorrow since the time he had seen her last. He set forth his case in a masterly way, with little touching facts of his childhood, and lonely upbringing, with no mother to guide. He told her that her noble action toward him had but made him revere her the more, and that, in short, she had made a new creature of him by refusing to return his kiss that day, and leaving him alone with so severe a rebuke. He felt that if all women were so good and true men would be a differentrace, and now he looked up to her as one might look up to an angel, and he felt he could never be happy again on this earth until he had her written word of forgiveness. With that he felt he could live a new life, and she must rest assured that he would never offer other than reverence to any woman again. He further added that his action had not intended any insult to her, that he was merely expressing his natural admiration for a spirit so good and true, and that his soul was innocent of any intention of evil. With sophistry in the use of which he was an adept, he closed his epistle, fully clearing himself, and assuring her that he could have made her understand it that day if she had not left so suddenly, and he had not been almost immediately called away to the dying bed of his dear cousin. This contradictory letter had troubled Marcia greatly. She was keen enough to see that his logic was at fault, and that the two pages of his letter did not hang together, but one thing was plain, that he wished her forgiveness. The Bible said that one must forgive, and surely it was right to let him know that she did, though when she thought of the fright he had given her it was hard to do. Still, it was right, and if he was so unhappy, perhaps she had better let him know. She would rather have waited until David returned to consult him in the matter, but the letter seemed so insistent that she had finally written a stiff little note, in formal language,“Mrs. Spafford sends herewith her full and free forgiveness to Mr. Harry Temple, and promises to think no more of the matter.”

She would have liked to consult some one. She almost thought of taking Aunt Clarinda into her confidence, but decided that she might not understand. So she finally sent off the brief missive, and let her troubled thoughts wander after it more than once.

She was standing by the window looking out into the yard perplexing herself over this again when there came a loud knocking at the front door. She started, half frightened,for the knock sounded through the empty house so insistently. It seemed like trouble coming. She felt nervous as she went down the hall.

It was only a little urchin, barefoot, and tow-headed. He had ridden an old mare to the door, and left her nosing at the dusty grass. He brought her a letter. Again her heart fluttered excitedly. Who could be writing to her? It was not David. Why did the handwriting look familiar? It could not be from any one at home. Father? Mother? No, it was no one she knew. She tore it open, and the boy jumped on his horse and was off down the street before she realized that he was gone.

“Dear Madam:”the letter read,“I bring you news of your husband, and having met with an accident I am unable to come further. You will find me at the Green Tavern two miles out on the corduroy road. As the business is private, please come alone.“A Messenger.”

“Dear Madam:”the letter read,

“I bring you news of your husband, and having met with an accident I am unable to come further. You will find me at the Green Tavern two miles out on the corduroy road. As the business is private, please come alone.

“A Messenger.”

Marcia trembled so that she sat down on the stairs. A sudden weakness went over her like a wave, and the hall grew dark around her as though she were going to faint. But she did not. She was strong and well and had never fainted in her life. She rallied in a moment and tried to think. Something had happened to David. Something dreadful, perhaps, and she must go at once and find out. Still it must be something mysterious, for the man had said it was private. Of course that meant David would not want it known. David had intended that the man would come to her and tell her by herself. She must go. There was nothing else to be done. She must go at once and get rid of this awful suspense. It was a good day for the message to have come, for she had brought her lunch expecting to do some spring cleaning. David had been expected home soon, and she liked to make a bustle of preparation as if he might come in any day, for it kept up her good cheer.

Having resolved to go she got up at once, closed the doors and windows, put on her bonnet and went out down the street toward the old corduroy road. It frightened her to think what might be at the end of her journey. Possibly David himself, hurt or dying, and he had sent for her in this way that she might break the news gently to his aunts. As she walked along she conjured various forms of trouble that might have come to him. Now and then she would try to take a cheerful view, saying to herself that David might have needed more important papers, papers which he would not like everyone to know about, and had sent by special messenger to her to get them. Then her face would brighten and her step grow more brisk. But always would come the dull thud of possibility of something more serious. Her heart beat so fast sometimes that she was forced to lessen her speed to get her breath, for though she was going through town, and must necessarily walk somewhat soberly lest she call attention to herself, she found that her nerves and imagination were fairly running ahead, and waiting impatiently for her feet to catch up at every turning place.

At last she came to the corduroy road—a long stretch of winding way overlaid with logs which made an unpleasant path. Most of the way was swampy, and bordered in some places by thick, dark woods. Marcia sped on from log to log, with a nervous feeling that she must step on each one or her errand would not be successful. She was not afraid of the loneliness, only of what might be coming at the end of her journey.

But suddenly, in the densest part of the wood, she became conscious of footsteps echoing hers, and a chill laid hold upon her. She turned her head and there, wildly gesticulating and running after her, was Miranda!

Annoyed, and impatient to be on her way, and wondering what to do with Miranda, or what she could possibly want, Marcia stopped to wait for her.

“I thought—as you was goin’ ’long my way”—puffed Miranda,“I’d jes’ step along beside you. You don’t mind, do you?”

Marcia looked troubled. If she should say she did then Miranda would think it queer and perhaps suspect something.

She tried to smile and ask how far Miranda was going.

“Oh, I’m goin’ to hunt fer wild strawberries,”said the girl nonchalantly clattering a big tin pail.

“Isn’t it early yet for strawberries?”questioned Marcia.

“Well, mebbe, an’ then ag’in mebbe ’tain’t. I know a place I’m goin’ to look anyway. Are you goin’ ’s fur ’s the Green Tavern?”

Miranda’s bright eyes looked her through and through, and Marcia’s truthful ones could not evade. Suddenly as she looked into the girl’s homely face, filled with a kind of blind adoration, her heart yearned for counsel in this trying situation. She was reminded of Miranda’s helpfulness the time she ran away to the woods, and the care with which she had guarded the whole matter so that no one ever heard of it. An impulse came to her to confide in Miranda. She was a girl of sharp common sense, and would perhaps be able to help with her advice. At least she could get comfort from merely telling her trouble and anxiety.

“Miranda,”she said,“can you keep a secret?”

The girl nodded.

“Well, I’m going to tell you something, just because I am so troubled and I feel as if it would do me good to tell it.”She smiled and Miranda answered the smile with much satisfaction and no surprise. Miranda had come for this, though she did not expect her way to be so easy.

“I’ll be mum as an oyster,”said Miranda.“You jest tell me anything you please. You needn’t be afraid Hannah Heath’ll know a grain about it. She’n’ I are two people. I know when to shut up.”

“Well, Miranda, I’m in great perplexity and anxiety.I’ve just had a note from a messenger my husband has sent asking me to come out to that Green Tavern you were talking about. He was sent to me with some message and has had an accident so he couldn’t come. It kind of frightened me to think what might be the matter. I’m glad you are going this way because it keeps me from thinking about it. Are we nearly there? I never went out this road so far before.”

“It ain’t fur,”said Miranda as if that were a minor matter.“I’ll go right along in with you, then you needn’t feel lonely. I guess likely it’s business. Don’t you worry.”The tone was reassuring, but Marcia’s face looked troubled.

“No, I guess that won’t do, Miranda, for the note says it is a private matter and I must come alone. You know Mr. Spafford has matters to write about that are very important, railroads, and such things, and sometimes he doesn’t care to have any one get hold of his ideas before they appear in the paper. His enemies might use them to stop the plans of the great improvements he is writing about.”

“Let me see that note!”demanded Miranda.“Got it with you?”Marcia hesitated. Perhaps she ought not to show it, and yet there was nothing in the note but what she had already told the girl, and she felt sure she would not breathe a word to a living soul after her promise. She handed Miranda the letter, and they stopped a moment while she slowly spelled it out. Miranda was no scholar. Marcia watched her face eagerly, as if to gather a ray of hope from it, but she was puzzled by Miranda’s look. A kind of satisfaction had overspread her homely countenance.

“Should you think from that that David was hurt—or ill—or—or—killed—or anything?”She asked the question as if Miranda were a wizard, and hung anxiously upon her answer.

“Naw, I don’t reckon so!”said Miranda.“Don’t you worry. David’s all right somehow. I’ll take care o’ you. You go ’long up and see what’s the business, an’ I’ll wait here out o’ sight o’ the tavern. Likely’s not he might take a notionnot to tell you ef he see me come along with you. You jest go ahead, and I’ll be on hand when you get through. If you need me fer anything you jest holler out ‘Randy!’ good and loud an’ I’ll hear you. Guess I’ll set on this log. The tavern’s jest round that bend in the road. Naw, you needn’t thank me. This is a real pretty mornin’ to set an’ rest. Good-bye.”

Marcia hurried on, glancing back happily at her protector in a calico sunbonnet seated stolidly on a log with her tin pail beside her.

Poor stupid Miranda! Of course she could not understand what a comfort it was to have confided her trouble. Marcia went up to the tavern with almost a smile on her face, though her heart began to beat wildly as a slatternly girl led her into a big room at the right of the hall.

As Marcia disappeared behind the bend in the road, Miranda stealthily stole along the edge of the woods, till she stood hidden behind a clump of alders where she could peer out and watch Marcia until she reached the tavern and passed safely by the row of lounging, smoking men, and on into the doorway. Then Miranda waited just an instant to look in all directions, and sped across the road, mounting the fence and on through two meadows, and the barnyard to the kitchen door of the tavern.

“Mornin’! Mis’ Green,”she said to the slovenly looking woman who sat by the table peeling potatoes.“Mind givin’ me a drink o’ water? I’m terrible thirsty, and seemed like I couldn’t find the spring. Didn’t thare used to be a spring ’tween here’n town?”

“Goodness sakes! Randy! Where’d you come from? Water! Jes’ help yourself. There’s the bucket jes’ from the spring five minutes since, an’ there’s the gourd hanging up on the wall. I can’t get up, I’m that busy. Twelve to dinner to-day, an’ only me to do the cookin’. ’Melia she’s got to be upstairs helpin’ at the bar.”

“Who all you got here?”questioned Miranda as she took a draught from the old gourd.

“Well, got a gentleman from New York fur one. He’s real pretty. Quite a beau. His clo’es are that nice you’d think he was goin’ to court. He’s that particular ’bout his eatin’ I feel flustered. Nothin’ would do but he hed to hev a downstairs room. He said he didn’t like goin’ upstairs. He don’t look sickly, neither.”

“Mebbe he’s had a accident an’ lamed himself,”suggested Miranda cunningly.“Heard o’ any accidents? How’d he come? Coach or horseback?”

“Coach,”said Mrs. Green.“Why do you ask? Got any friends in New York?”

“Not many,”responded Miranda importantly,“but my cousin Hannah Heath has. You know she’s ben up there for a spell visitin’ an’ they say there was lots of gentlemen in love with her. There’s one in particular used to come round a good deal. It might be him come round to see ef it’s true Hannah’s goin’ to get married to Lem Skinner. Know what this fellow’s name is?”

“You don’t say! Well now it might be. No, I don’t rightly remember his name. Seems though it was something like Church er Chapel. ’Melia could tell ye, but she’s busy.”

“Where’s he at? Mebbe I could get a glimpse o’ him. I’d jest like to know ef he was comin’ to bother our Hannah.”

“Well now. Mebbe you could get a sight o’ him. There’s a cupboard between his room an’ the room back. It has a door both sides. Mebbe ef you was to slip in there you might see him through the latch hole. I ain’t usin’ that back room fer anythin’ but a store-room this spring, so look out you don’t stumble over nothin’ when you go in fer it’s dark as a pocket. You go right ’long in. I reckon you’ll find the way. Yes, it’s on the right hand side o’ the hall. I’ve got to set here an’ finish these potatoes er dinner’ll be late. I’d like to know real well ef he’s one o’ Hannah Heath’s beaux.”

Miranda needed no second bidding. She slipped through the hall and store room, and in a moment stood before the door of the closet. Softly she opened it, and stepped in, lifting her feet cautiously, for the closet floor seemed full of old boots and shoes.

It was dark in there, very dark, and only one slat of light stabbed the blackness coming through the irregular shape of the latch hole. She could hear voices in low tones speaking on the other side of the door. Gradually her eyes grew accustomed to the light and one by one objects came out of the shadows and looked at her. A white pitcher with a broken nose, a row of bottles, a bunch of seed corn with the husks braided together and hung on a nail, an old coat on another nail.

Down on her knees beside the crack of light went Miranda. First her eye and then her ear were applied to the small aperture. She could see nothing but a table directly in front of the door about a foot away on which were quills, paper, and a large horn inkstand filled with ink. Some one evidently had been writing, for a page was half done, and the pen was laid down beside a word.

The limits of the latch hole made it impossible for Miranda to make out any more. She applied her ear and could hear a man’s voice talking in low insinuating tones, but she could make little of what was said. It drove her fairly frantic to think that she was losing time. Miranda had no mind to be balked in her purpose. She meant to find out who was in that room and what was going on. She felt a righteous interest in it.

Her eyes could see quite plainly now in the dark closet. There was a big button on the door. She no sooner discovered it than she put up her hand and tried to turn it. It was tight and made a slight squeak in turning. She stopped but the noise seemed to have no effect upon the evenly modulated tones inside. Cautiously she moved the button again,holding the latch firmly in her other hand lest the door should suddenly fly open. It was an exciting moment when at last the button was turned entirely away from the door frame and the lifted latch swung free in Miranda’s hand. The door opened outward. If it were allowed to go it would probably strike against the table. Miranda only allowed it to open a crack. She could hear words now, and the voice reminded her of something unpleasant. The least little bit more she dared open the door, and she could see, as she had expected, Marcia’s bonnet and shoulder cape as she sat at the other side of the room. This then was the room of the messenger who had sent for Mrs. Spafford so peremptorily. The next thing was to discover the identity of the messenger. Miranda had suspicions.

The night before she had seen a man lurking near the Spafford house when she went out in the garden to feed the chickens. She had watched him from behind the lilac bush, and when he had finally gone away she had followed him some distance until he turned into the old corduroy road and was lost in the gathering dusk. The man she had seen before, and had reason to suspect. It was not for nothing that she had braved her grandmother and gone hunting wild strawberries out of season.

With the caution of a creature of the forest Miranda opened the door an inch further, and applied her eye to the latch hole again. The man’s head was in full range of her eye then, and her suspicion proved true.

When Marcia entered the big room and the heavy oak door closed behind her her heart seemed almost choking her, but she tried with all her might to be calm. She was to know the worst now.

On the other side of the room in a large arm-chair, with his feet extended on another and covered by a travelling shawl, reclined a man. Marcia went toward him eagerly, and then stopped:

“Mr. Temple!”There was horror, fear, reproach in the way she spoke it.

“I know you are astonished, Mrs. Spafford, that the messenger should be one so unworthy, and let me say at the beginning that I am more thankful than I can express that your letter of forgiveness reached me before I was obliged to start on my sorrowful commission. I beg you will sit down and be as comfortable as you can while I explain further. Pardon my not rising. I have met with a bad sprain caused by falling from my horse on the way, and was barely able to reach this stopping place. My ankle is swollen so badly that I cannot step upon my foot.”

Marcia, with white face, moved to the chair he indicated near him, and sat down. The one thought his speech had conveyed to her had come through those words“my sorrowful commission.”She felt the need of sitting down, for her limbs would no longer bear her up, and she felt she must immediately know what was the matter.

“Mrs. Spafford, may I ask you once more to speak your forgiveness? Before I begin to tell you what I have come for, I long to hear you say the words ‘I forgive you.’ Will you give me your hand and say them?”

“Mr. Temple, I beg you will tell me what is the matter. Do not think any further about that other matter. I meant what I said in the note. Tell me quick! Is my husband—has anything happened to Mr. Spafford? Is he ill? Is he hurt?”

“My poor child! How can I bear to tell you? It seems terrible to put your love and trust upon another human being and then suddenly find—— But wait. Let me tell the story in my own way. No, your husband is not hurt, physically. Illness, and death even, are not the worst things that can happen to a mortal soul. It seems to me cruel, as I see you sit there so young and tender and beautiful, that I should have to hurt you by what I have to say. I come from the purest of motives to tell you a sad truth about one whoshould be nearest and dearest to you of all the earth. I beg you will look upon me kindly and believe that it hurts me to have to tell you these things. Before I begin I pray you will tell me that you forgive me for all I have to say. Put your hand in mine and say so.”

Marcia had listened to this torrent of words unable to stop them, a choking sensation in her throat, fear gripping her heart. Some terrible thing had happened. Her senses refused to name the possibility. Would he never tell? What ailed the man that he wanted her hand in forgiveness? Of course she forgave him. She could not speak, and he kept urging.

“I cannot talk until I have your hand as a pledge that you will forgive me and think not unkindly of me for what I am about to tell you.”

He must have seen how powerfully he wrought upon her, for he continued until wild with frantic fear she stumbled toward him and laid her hand in his. He grasped it and thanked her profusely. He looked at the little cold hand in his own, and his lying tongue went on:

“Mrs. Spafford, you are good and true. You have saved me from a life of uselessness, and your example and high noble character have given me new inspiration. It seems a poor gratitude that would turn and stab you to the heart. Ah! I cannot do it, and yet I must.”

This was torture indeed! Marcia drew her hand sharply away and held it to her heart. She felt her brain reeling with the strain. Harry Temple saw he must go on at once or he would lose what he had gained. He had meant to keep that little hand and touch it gently with a comforting pressure as his story went on, but it would not do to frighten her or she might take sudden alarm.

“Sit down,”he begged, reaching out and drawing a chair near to his own, but she stepped back and dropped into the one which she had first taken.

“You know your husband has been in New York?”he began. She nodded. She could not speak.

“Did you never suspect why he is there and why he stays so long?”A cold vise gripped Marcia’s heart, but though she turned white she said nothing, only looked steadily into the false eyes that glowed and burned at her like two hateful coals of fire that would scorch her soul and David’s to a horrid death.

“Poor child, you cannot answer. You have trusted perfectly. You thought he was there on business connected with his writing, but did it never occur to you what a very long time he has been away and that—that there might be some other reason also which he has not told? But you must know it now, my child. I am sorry to say it, but he has been keeping it from you, and those who love you think you ought to know. Let me explain. Very soon after he reached New York he met a lady whom he used to know and admire. She is a very beautiful woman, and though she is married is still much sought after. Your husband, like the rest of her admirers, soon lost his heart completely, and his head. Strange that he could so easily forget the pearl of women he had left behind! He went to see her. He showed his affection for her in every possible way. He gave her large sums of money. In fact, to make a long story short, he is lingering in New York just to be near her. I hesitate to speak the whole truth, but he has surely done that which you cannot forgive. You with your lofty ideas—Mrs. Spafford—he has cut himself off from any right to your respect or love.

“And now I am here to-day to offer to do all in my power to help you. From what I know of your husband’s movements, he is likely to return to you soon. You cannot meet him knowing that the lips that will salute you have been pressed upon the lips of another woman, and that womanyour own sister, dear Mrs. Spafford!

“Ah! Now you understand, poor child. Your lipsquiver! You have reason to understand. I know, I know you cannot think what to do. Let me think for you.”His eyes were glowing and his face animated. He was using all his persuasive power, and her gaze was fixed upon him as though he had mesmerized her. She could not resist the flood-tide of his eloquence. She could only look on and seem to be gradually turning to stone—frozen with horror.

He felt he had almost won, and with demoniacal skill he phrased his sentences.

“I am here for that purpose. I am here to help you and for no other reason. In the stable are horses harnessed and a comfortable carriage. My advice to you is to fly from here as fast as these fleet horses can carry you. Where you go is for you to say. I should advise going to your father’s house. That I am sure is what will please him best. He is your natural refuge at such a time as this. If, however, you shrink from appearing before the eyes of the village gossips in your native town, I will take you to the home of a dear old friend of mine, hidden among the quiet hills, where you will be cared for most royally and tenderly for my sake, and where you can work out your life problem in the way that seems best to you. It is there that I am planning to take you to-night. We can easily reach there before evening if we start at once.”

Marcia started to her feet in horror.

“What do you mean?”she stammered in a choking voice.“I could never go anywhere with you Mr. Temple. You are a bad man! You have been telling me lies! I do not believe one word of what you have said. My husband is noble and good. If he did any of those things you say he did he had a reason for it. I shall never distrust him.”

Marcia’s head was up grandly now and her voice had come back. She looked the man in the eye until he quailed, but still he sought to hold his power over her.

“You poor child!”and his voice was gentleness and forbearance itself.“I do not wonder in your first horror andsurprise that you feel as you do. I anticipated this. Sit down and calm yourself and let me tell you more about it. I can prove everything that I have said. I have letters here——”and he swept his hand toward a pile of letters lying on the table; Miranda in the closet marked well the position of those letters.“All that I have said is only too true, I am sorry to say, and you must listen to me——”

Marcia interrupted him, her eyes blazing, her face excited:“Mr. Temple, I shall not listen to another word you say. You are a wicked man and I was wrong to come here at all. You deceived me or I should not have come. I must go home at once.”With that she started toward the door.

Harry Temple flung aside the shawl that covered his sometime sprained ankle and arose quickly, placing himself before her, forgetful of his invalid rôle:

“Not so fast, my pretty lady,”he said, grasping her wrists fiercely in both his hands.“You need not think to escape so easily. You shall not leave this room except in my company. Do you not know that you are in my power? You have spent nearly an hour alone in my bedchamber, and what will your precious husband have to do with you after this is known?”

CHAPTER XXIVMiranda’s time had come. She had seen it coming and was prepared.With a movement like a flash she pushed open the closet door, seized the pot of ink from the table, and before the two excited occupants of the room had time to even hear her or realize that she was near, she hurled the ink pot full into the insolent face of Harry Temple. The inkstand itself was a light affair of horn and inflicted only a slight wound, but the ink came into his eyes in a deluge blinding him completely, as Miranda had meant it should do. She had seen no other weapon of defense at hand.Harry Temple dropped Marcia’s wrists and groaned in pain, staggering back against the wall and sinking to the floor. But Miranda would not stay to see the effect of her punishment. She seized the frightened Marcia, dragged her toward the cupboard door, sweeping as she passed the pile of letters, finished and unfinished, into her apron, and closed the cupboard doors carefully behind her. Then she guided Marcia through the dark mazes of the store room to the hall, and pushing her toward the front door, whispered:“Go quick ’fore he gets his eyes open. I’ve got to go this way. Run down the road fast as you can an’ I’ll be at the meetin’ place first. Hurry, quick!”Marcia went with feet that shook so that every step seemed like to slip, but with beating heart she finally traversed the length of the piazza with a show of dignity, passed the loungers, and was out in the road. Then indeed she took courage and fairly flew.Miranda, breathless, but triumphant, went back into the kitchen:“I guess ’tain’t him after all,”she said to the interestedwoman who was putting on the potatoes to boil.“He’s real interesting to look at though. I’d like to stop and watch him longer but I must be goin’. I come out to hunt fer”—Miranda hesitated for a suitable object before this country-bred woman who well knew that strawberries were not ripe yet—“wintergreens fer Grandma,”she added cheerfully, not quite sure whether they grew around these parts,“and I must be in a hurry. Good-bye! Thank you fer the drink.”Miranda whizzed out of the door breezily, calling a good morning to one of the hostlers as she passed the barnyard, and was off through the meadows and over the fence like a bird, the package of letters rustling loud in her bosom where she had tucked them before she entered the kitchen.Neither of the two girls spoke for some minutes after they met, but continued their rapid gait, until the end of the corduroy road was in sight and they felt comparatively safe.“Wal, that feller certainly ought to be strung up an’ walluped, now, fer sure,”remarked Miranda,“an I’d like to help at the wallupin’.”Marcia’s overstrung nerves suddenly dissolved into hysterical laughter. The contrast from the tragic to the ridiculous was too much for her. She laughed until the tears rolled down her cheeks, and then she cried in earnest. Miranda stopped and put her arms about her as gently as a mother might have done, and smoothed her hair back from the hot cheek, speaking tenderly:“There now, you poor pretty little flower. Jest you cry ’s hard ’s you want to. I know how good it makes you feel to cry. I’ve done it many a time up garret where nobody couldn’t hear me. That old Satan, he won’t trouble you fer a good long spell again. When he gets his evil eyes open, if he ever does, he’ll be glad to get out o’ these parts or I miss my guess. Now don’t you worry no more. He can’t hurt you one mite. An’ don’t you think a thing about what he said. He’s a great big liar, that’s what he is.”“Miranda, you saved me. Yes, you did. I never can thank you enough. If you hadn’t come and helped me something awful might have happened!”Marcia shuddered and began to sob convulsively again.“Nonsense!”said Miranda, pleased.“I didn’t do a thing worth mentioning. Now you jest wipe your eyes and chirk up. We’ve got to go through town an’ you don’t want folks to wonder what’s up.”Miranda led Marcia up to the spring whose location had been known to her all the time of course, and Marcia bathed her eyes and was soon looking more like herself, though there was a nervous tremor to her lips now and then. But her companion talked gaily, and tried to keep her mind from going over the events of the morning.When they reached the village Miranda suggested they go home by the back street, slipping through a field of spring wheat and climbing the garden fence. She had a mind to keep out of her grandmother’s sight for a while longer.“I might’s well be hung for a sheep’s a lamb,”she remarked, as she slid in at Marcia’s kitchen door in the shadow of the morning-glory vines.“I’m goin’ to stay here a spell an’ get you some dinner while you go upstairs an’ lie down. You don’t need to go back to your aunt’s till near night, an’ you can wait till dusk an’ I’ll go with you. Then you needn’t be out alone at all. I know how you feel, but I don’t believe you need worry. He’ll be done with you now forever, er I’ll miss my guess. Now you go lie down till I make a cup o’ tea.”Marcia was glad to be alone, and soon fell asleep, worn out with the excitement, her brain too weary to go over the awful occurrences of the morning. That would come later. Now her body demanded rest.Miranda, coming upstairs with the tea, tiptoed in and looked at her,—one round arm thrown over her head, and her smooth peachy cheek resting against it. Miranda,homely, and with no hope of ever attaining any of the beautiful things of life, loved unselfishly this girl who had what she had not, and longed with all her heart to comfort and protect the sweet young thing who seemed so ill-prepared to protect herself. She stooped over the sleeper for one yearning moment, and touched her hair lightly with her lips. She felt a great desire to kiss the soft round cheek, but was afraid of wakening her. Then she took the cup of tea and tiptoed out again, her eyes shining with satisfaction. She had a self-imposed task before her, and was well pleased that Marcia slept, for it gave her plenty of opportunity to carry out her plans.She went quickly to David’s library, opened drawers and doors in the desk until she found writing materials, and sat down to work. She had a letter to write, and a letter, to Miranda, was the achievement of a lifetime. She did not much expect to ever have to write another. She plunged into her subject at once.“Dear Mr. David:”(she was afraid that sounded a little stiff, but she felt it was almost too familiar to say“David”as he was always called.)“I ain’t much on letters, but this one has got to be writ. Something happened and somebody’s got to tell you about it. I’m most sure she wont, and nobody else knows cept me.“Last night ’bout dark I went out to feed the chickens, an’ I see that nimshi Harry Temple skulkin round your house. It was all dark there, an he walked in the side gate and tried to peek in the winders, only the shades was down an he couldn’t see a thing. I thought he was up to some mischief so I followed him down the street a piece till he turned down the old corduroy road. It was dark by then an I come home, but I was on the watchout this morning, and after Mis’ Spafford come down to the house I heard a horse gallopin by an I looked out an saw a boy get off an take a letter to the door an ride away, an pretty soon all in a hurry your wife come out tyin her bonnet and hurryin along lookin scared. I grabbed my sunbonnet anclipped after her, but she went so fast I didn’t get up to her till she got on the old corduroy road. She was awful scared lookin an she didn’t want me much I see, but pretty soon she up an told me she had a note sayin there was a messenger with news from you out to the old Green Tavern. He had a accident an couldn’t come no further. He wanted her to come alone cause the business was private, so I stayed down by the turn of the road till she got in an then I went cross lots an round to the kitchen an called on Mis’ Green a spell. She was tellin me about her boarders an I told her I thought mebbe one of em was a friend o’ Hannah Heath’s so she said I might peek through the key hole of the cubberd an see. She was busy so I went alone.“Well sir, I jest wish you’d been there. That lying nimshi was jest goin on the sweetest, as respectful an nice a thankin your wife fer comin, an excusin himself fer sendin fer her, and sayin he couldn’t bear to tell her what he’d come fer, an pretty soon when she was scared ’s death he up an told her a awful fib bout you an a woman called Kate, whoever she is, an he jest poured the words out fast so she couldn’t speak, an he said things about you he shouldn’t uv, an you could see he was makin it up as he went along, an he said he had proof. So he pointed at a pile of letters on the table an I eyed em good through the hole in the door. Pretty soon he ups and perposes that he carry her off in a carriage he has all ready, and takes her to a friend of his, so she wont be here when you come home, cause you’re so bad, and she gets up looking like she wanted to scream only she didn’t dare, and she says he dont tell the truth, it wasn’t so any of it, and if it was it was all right anyway, that you had some reason, an she wouldn’t go a step with him anywhere. An then he forgets all about the lame ankle he had kept covered up on a chair pertendin it was hurt fallin off his horse when the coach brought him all the way fer I asked Mis’ Green—and he ketches her by the wrists, and he says she can’t go without him, and she needn’t be in such a hurry fer you wouldn’t have no more to do with her anyway after her being shut up there with him so long, an then she looked jest like she was going to faint, an I bust out through the door an ketched up the ink pot, it want heavy enough tokill him, an I slung it at him, an the ink went square in his eyes, an we slipped through the closet an got away quick fore anybody knew a thing.“I brought all the letters along so here they be. I havn’t read a one, cause I thought mebbe you’d ruther not. She aint seen em neither. She dont know I’ve got em. I hid em in my dress. She’s all wore out with cryin and hurryin, and being scared, so she’s upstairs now asleep, an she dont know I’m writing. I’m goin to send this off fore she knows, fer I think she wouldn’t tell you fear of worryin you. I’ll look after her es well’s I can till you get back, but I think that feller ought to be strung up. But you’ll know what to do, so no more at present from your obedient servent,“Miranda Griscom.”Having at last succeeded in sealing her packet to her satisfaction and the diminishing of the stick of sealing wax she had found in the drawer, Miranda slid out the front door, and by a detour went to David Spafford’s office.“Good afternoon, Mr. Clark,”she said to the clerk importantly.“Grandma sends her respecks and wants to know ef you’d be so kind as to back this letter fer her to Mr. David Spafford. She’s writin’ to him on business an’ she don’t rightly know his street an’ number in New York.”Mr. Clark willingly wrote the address, and Miranda took it to the post office, and sped back to Marcia, happy in the accomplishment of her purpose.In the same mail bag that brought Miranda’s package came a letter from Aunt Clarinda. David’s face lit up with a pleased smile. Her letters were so infrequent that they were a rare pleasure. He put aside the thick package written in his clerk’s hand. It was doubtless some business papers and could wait.Aunt Clarinda wrote in a fine old script that in spite of her eighty years was clear and legible. She told about the beauty of the weather, and how Amelia and Hortense were almost done with the house cleaning, and how Marcia had beengoing to their house every day putting it in order. Then she added a paragraph which David, knowing the old lady well, understood to be theraison d’êtreof the whole letter:“I think your wife misses you very much, Davie, she looks sort of peeked and sad. It is hard on her being separated from you so long this first year. Men don’t think of those things, but it is lonely for a young thing like her here with three old women, and you know Hortense and Amelia never try to make it lively for anybody. I have been watching her, and I think if I were you I would let the business finish itself up as soon as possible and hurry back to put a bit of cheer into that child. She’s whiter than she ought to be.”David read it over three times in astonishment with growing, mingled feelings which he could not quite analyze.Poor Aunt Clarinda! Of course she did not understand the situation, and equally of course she was mistaken. Marcia was not sighing for him, though it might be dull for her at the old house. He ought to have thought of that; and a great burden suddenly settled down upon him. He was not doing right by Marcia. It could not be himself of course that Marcia was missing, if indeed Aunt Clarinda was right and she was worried about anything. Perhaps something had occurred to trouble her. Could that snake of a Temple have turned up again? No, he felt reasonably sure he would have heard of that, besides he saw him not long ago on the street at a distance. Could it be some boy-lover at home whose memory came to trouble her? Or had she discovered what a sacrifice she had made of her young life? Whatever it was, it was careless and cruel in him to have left her alone with his aunts all this time. He was a selfish man, he told himself, to have accepted her quiet little sacrifice of all for him. He read the letter over again, and suddenly there came to him a wish that Marciawasmissing him. It seemed a pleasant thought to have her care. He had been trying to train himself to the fact that no one would ever care for him again,but now it seemed dear and desirable that his sweet young companion should like to have him back. He had a vision of home as it had been, so pleasant and restful, always the food that he liked, always the thought for his wishes, and he felt condemned. He had not noticed or cared. Had she thought him ungrateful?He read the letter over again, noting every mention of his wife in the account of the daily living at home. He was searching for some clue that would give him more information about her. And when he reached the last paragraph about missing him, a little tingle of pleasure shot through him at the thought. He did not understand it. After all she was his, and if it was possible he must help to make up to her for what she had lost in giving herself to him. If the thought of doing so brought a sense of satisfaction to him that was unexpected, he was not to blame in any wise.Since his interview with Kate, and the terrible night of agony through which he had passed, David had plunged into his business with all his might. Whenever a thought of Kate came he banished it if possible, and if it would not go he got out his writing materials and went to work at an article, to absorb his mind. He had several times arisen in the night to write because he could not sleep, and must think.When he was obliged to be in New York he had steadily kept away from the house where Kate lived, and never walked through the streets without occupying his mind as fully as possible so that he should not chance to see her. In this way his sorrow was growing old without having been worn out, and he was really regaining a large amount of his former happiness and interest in life. Not so often now did the vision of Kate come to trouble him. He thought she was still his one ideal of womanly beauty and grace and perfection of course, and always would be, but she was not for him to think upon any more. A strong true man he was growing, out of his sorrow. And now when the thought of Marcia came tohim with a certain sweetness he could be glad that it was so, and not resent it. Of course no one could ever take the place of Kate, that was impossible.So reflecting, with a pleasant smile upon his face, he opened Miranda’s epistle.Puzzled and surprised he began to read the strange chirography, and as he read his face darkened and he drew his brows in a heavy frown.“The scoundrel!”he muttered as he turned the sheet. Then as he went on his look grew anxious. He scanned the page quickly as if he would gather the meaning from the crooked ill-spelled words without taking them one by one. But he had to go slowly, for Miranda had not written with as much plainness as haste. He fairly held his breath when he thought of the gentle girl in the hands of the unscrupulous man of the world. A terrible fear gripped his heart, Marcia, little Marcia, so sweet and pure and good. A vision of her face as she lay asleep in the woods came between him and the paper. Why had he left her unprotected all these months? Fool that he was! She was worth more than all the railroads put together. As if his own life was in the balance, he read on, growing sick with horror. Poor child! what had she thought? And how had his own sin and weakness been found out, or was it merely Harry Temple’s wicked heart that had evolved these stories? The letter smote him with terrible accusation, and all at once it was fearful to him to think that Marcia had heard such things about him. When he came to her trust in him he groaned aloud and buried his face in the letter, and then raised it quickly to read to the end.When he had finished he rose with sudden determination to pack his carpet-bag and go home at once. Marcia needed him, and he felt a strong desire to be near her, to see her and know she was safe. It was overwhelming. He had not known he could ever feel strongly again. He must confess his own weakness of course, and he would. She should know all and know that she might trust his after all.But the motion of rising had sent the other papers to the floor, and in falling the bundle of letters that Miranda had enclosed, scattered about him. He stooped to pick them up and saw his own name written in Kate’s handwriting. Old association held him, and wondering, fearful, not wholly glad to see it, he picked up the letter. It was an epistle of Kate’s, written in intimate style to Harry Temple and speaking of himself in terms of the utmost contempt. She even stooped to detail to Harry an account of her own triumph on that miserable morning when he had taken her in his arms and kissed her. There were expressions in the letter that showed her own wicked heart, as nothing else could ever have done, to David. As he read, his soul growing sick within him,—read one letter after another, and saw how she had plotted with this bad man to wreck the life of her young sister for her own triumph and revenge,—the beautiful woman whom he had loved, and whom he had thought beautiful within as well as without, crumbled into dust before him. When he looked up at last with white face and firmly set lips, he found that his soul was free forever from the fetters that had bound him to her.He went to the fireplace and laid the pile of letters among the embers, blowing them into a blaze, and watched them until they were eaten up by the fire and nothing remained but dead grey ashes. The thought came to him that that was like his old love. It was burnt out. There had not been the right kind of fuel to feed it. Kate was worthless, but his own self was alive, and please God he would yet see better days. He would go home at once to the child wife who needed him, and whom now he might love as she should be loved. The thought became wondrously sweet to him as he rapidly threw the things into his travelling bag and went about arrangements for his trip home. He determined that if he ever came to New York again Marcia should come with him.

Miranda’s time had come. She had seen it coming and was prepared.

With a movement like a flash she pushed open the closet door, seized the pot of ink from the table, and before the two excited occupants of the room had time to even hear her or realize that she was near, she hurled the ink pot full into the insolent face of Harry Temple. The inkstand itself was a light affair of horn and inflicted only a slight wound, but the ink came into his eyes in a deluge blinding him completely, as Miranda had meant it should do. She had seen no other weapon of defense at hand.

Harry Temple dropped Marcia’s wrists and groaned in pain, staggering back against the wall and sinking to the floor. But Miranda would not stay to see the effect of her punishment. She seized the frightened Marcia, dragged her toward the cupboard door, sweeping as she passed the pile of letters, finished and unfinished, into her apron, and closed the cupboard doors carefully behind her. Then she guided Marcia through the dark mazes of the store room to the hall, and pushing her toward the front door, whispered:“Go quick ’fore he gets his eyes open. I’ve got to go this way. Run down the road fast as you can an’ I’ll be at the meetin’ place first. Hurry, quick!”

Marcia went with feet that shook so that every step seemed like to slip, but with beating heart she finally traversed the length of the piazza with a show of dignity, passed the loungers, and was out in the road. Then indeed she took courage and fairly flew.

Miranda, breathless, but triumphant, went back into the kitchen:“I guess ’tain’t him after all,”she said to the interestedwoman who was putting on the potatoes to boil.“He’s real interesting to look at though. I’d like to stop and watch him longer but I must be goin’. I come out to hunt fer”—Miranda hesitated for a suitable object before this country-bred woman who well knew that strawberries were not ripe yet—“wintergreens fer Grandma,”she added cheerfully, not quite sure whether they grew around these parts,“and I must be in a hurry. Good-bye! Thank you fer the drink.”

Miranda whizzed out of the door breezily, calling a good morning to one of the hostlers as she passed the barnyard, and was off through the meadows and over the fence like a bird, the package of letters rustling loud in her bosom where she had tucked them before she entered the kitchen.

Neither of the two girls spoke for some minutes after they met, but continued their rapid gait, until the end of the corduroy road was in sight and they felt comparatively safe.

“Wal, that feller certainly ought to be strung up an’ walluped, now, fer sure,”remarked Miranda,“an I’d like to help at the wallupin’.”

Marcia’s overstrung nerves suddenly dissolved into hysterical laughter. The contrast from the tragic to the ridiculous was too much for her. She laughed until the tears rolled down her cheeks, and then she cried in earnest. Miranda stopped and put her arms about her as gently as a mother might have done, and smoothed her hair back from the hot cheek, speaking tenderly:

“There now, you poor pretty little flower. Jest you cry ’s hard ’s you want to. I know how good it makes you feel to cry. I’ve done it many a time up garret where nobody couldn’t hear me. That old Satan, he won’t trouble you fer a good long spell again. When he gets his evil eyes open, if he ever does, he’ll be glad to get out o’ these parts or I miss my guess. Now don’t you worry no more. He can’t hurt you one mite. An’ don’t you think a thing about what he said. He’s a great big liar, that’s what he is.”

“Miranda, you saved me. Yes, you did. I never can thank you enough. If you hadn’t come and helped me something awful might have happened!”Marcia shuddered and began to sob convulsively again.

“Nonsense!”said Miranda, pleased.“I didn’t do a thing worth mentioning. Now you jest wipe your eyes and chirk up. We’ve got to go through town an’ you don’t want folks to wonder what’s up.”

Miranda led Marcia up to the spring whose location had been known to her all the time of course, and Marcia bathed her eyes and was soon looking more like herself, though there was a nervous tremor to her lips now and then. But her companion talked gaily, and tried to keep her mind from going over the events of the morning.

When they reached the village Miranda suggested they go home by the back street, slipping through a field of spring wheat and climbing the garden fence. She had a mind to keep out of her grandmother’s sight for a while longer.

“I might’s well be hung for a sheep’s a lamb,”she remarked, as she slid in at Marcia’s kitchen door in the shadow of the morning-glory vines.“I’m goin’ to stay here a spell an’ get you some dinner while you go upstairs an’ lie down. You don’t need to go back to your aunt’s till near night, an’ you can wait till dusk an’ I’ll go with you. Then you needn’t be out alone at all. I know how you feel, but I don’t believe you need worry. He’ll be done with you now forever, er I’ll miss my guess. Now you go lie down till I make a cup o’ tea.”

Marcia was glad to be alone, and soon fell asleep, worn out with the excitement, her brain too weary to go over the awful occurrences of the morning. That would come later. Now her body demanded rest.

Miranda, coming upstairs with the tea, tiptoed in and looked at her,—one round arm thrown over her head, and her smooth peachy cheek resting against it. Miranda,homely, and with no hope of ever attaining any of the beautiful things of life, loved unselfishly this girl who had what she had not, and longed with all her heart to comfort and protect the sweet young thing who seemed so ill-prepared to protect herself. She stooped over the sleeper for one yearning moment, and touched her hair lightly with her lips. She felt a great desire to kiss the soft round cheek, but was afraid of wakening her. Then she took the cup of tea and tiptoed out again, her eyes shining with satisfaction. She had a self-imposed task before her, and was well pleased that Marcia slept, for it gave her plenty of opportunity to carry out her plans.

She went quickly to David’s library, opened drawers and doors in the desk until she found writing materials, and sat down to work. She had a letter to write, and a letter, to Miranda, was the achievement of a lifetime. She did not much expect to ever have to write another. She plunged into her subject at once.

“Dear Mr. David:”(she was afraid that sounded a little stiff, but she felt it was almost too familiar to say“David”as he was always called.)“I ain’t much on letters, but this one has got to be writ. Something happened and somebody’s got to tell you about it. I’m most sure she wont, and nobody else knows cept me.“Last night ’bout dark I went out to feed the chickens, an’ I see that nimshi Harry Temple skulkin round your house. It was all dark there, an he walked in the side gate and tried to peek in the winders, only the shades was down an he couldn’t see a thing. I thought he was up to some mischief so I followed him down the street a piece till he turned down the old corduroy road. It was dark by then an I come home, but I was on the watchout this morning, and after Mis’ Spafford come down to the house I heard a horse gallopin by an I looked out an saw a boy get off an take a letter to the door an ride away, an pretty soon all in a hurry your wife come out tyin her bonnet and hurryin along lookin scared. I grabbed my sunbonnet anclipped after her, but she went so fast I didn’t get up to her till she got on the old corduroy road. She was awful scared lookin an she didn’t want me much I see, but pretty soon she up an told me she had a note sayin there was a messenger with news from you out to the old Green Tavern. He had a accident an couldn’t come no further. He wanted her to come alone cause the business was private, so I stayed down by the turn of the road till she got in an then I went cross lots an round to the kitchen an called on Mis’ Green a spell. She was tellin me about her boarders an I told her I thought mebbe one of em was a friend o’ Hannah Heath’s so she said I might peek through the key hole of the cubberd an see. She was busy so I went alone.“Well sir, I jest wish you’d been there. That lying nimshi was jest goin on the sweetest, as respectful an nice a thankin your wife fer comin, an excusin himself fer sendin fer her, and sayin he couldn’t bear to tell her what he’d come fer, an pretty soon when she was scared ’s death he up an told her a awful fib bout you an a woman called Kate, whoever she is, an he jest poured the words out fast so she couldn’t speak, an he said things about you he shouldn’t uv, an you could see he was makin it up as he went along, an he said he had proof. So he pointed at a pile of letters on the table an I eyed em good through the hole in the door. Pretty soon he ups and perposes that he carry her off in a carriage he has all ready, and takes her to a friend of his, so she wont be here when you come home, cause you’re so bad, and she gets up looking like she wanted to scream only she didn’t dare, and she says he dont tell the truth, it wasn’t so any of it, and if it was it was all right anyway, that you had some reason, an she wouldn’t go a step with him anywhere. An then he forgets all about the lame ankle he had kept covered up on a chair pertendin it was hurt fallin off his horse when the coach brought him all the way fer I asked Mis’ Green—and he ketches her by the wrists, and he says she can’t go without him, and she needn’t be in such a hurry fer you wouldn’t have no more to do with her anyway after her being shut up there with him so long, an then she looked jest like she was going to faint, an I bust out through the door an ketched up the ink pot, it want heavy enough tokill him, an I slung it at him, an the ink went square in his eyes, an we slipped through the closet an got away quick fore anybody knew a thing.“I brought all the letters along so here they be. I havn’t read a one, cause I thought mebbe you’d ruther not. She aint seen em neither. She dont know I’ve got em. I hid em in my dress. She’s all wore out with cryin and hurryin, and being scared, so she’s upstairs now asleep, an she dont know I’m writing. I’m goin to send this off fore she knows, fer I think she wouldn’t tell you fear of worryin you. I’ll look after her es well’s I can till you get back, but I think that feller ought to be strung up. But you’ll know what to do, so no more at present from your obedient servent,“Miranda Griscom.”

“Dear Mr. David:”(she was afraid that sounded a little stiff, but she felt it was almost too familiar to say“David”as he was always called.)

“I ain’t much on letters, but this one has got to be writ. Something happened and somebody’s got to tell you about it. I’m most sure she wont, and nobody else knows cept me.

“Last night ’bout dark I went out to feed the chickens, an’ I see that nimshi Harry Temple skulkin round your house. It was all dark there, an he walked in the side gate and tried to peek in the winders, only the shades was down an he couldn’t see a thing. I thought he was up to some mischief so I followed him down the street a piece till he turned down the old corduroy road. It was dark by then an I come home, but I was on the watchout this morning, and after Mis’ Spafford come down to the house I heard a horse gallopin by an I looked out an saw a boy get off an take a letter to the door an ride away, an pretty soon all in a hurry your wife come out tyin her bonnet and hurryin along lookin scared. I grabbed my sunbonnet anclipped after her, but she went so fast I didn’t get up to her till she got on the old corduroy road. She was awful scared lookin an she didn’t want me much I see, but pretty soon she up an told me she had a note sayin there was a messenger with news from you out to the old Green Tavern. He had a accident an couldn’t come no further. He wanted her to come alone cause the business was private, so I stayed down by the turn of the road till she got in an then I went cross lots an round to the kitchen an called on Mis’ Green a spell. She was tellin me about her boarders an I told her I thought mebbe one of em was a friend o’ Hannah Heath’s so she said I might peek through the key hole of the cubberd an see. She was busy so I went alone.

“Well sir, I jest wish you’d been there. That lying nimshi was jest goin on the sweetest, as respectful an nice a thankin your wife fer comin, an excusin himself fer sendin fer her, and sayin he couldn’t bear to tell her what he’d come fer, an pretty soon when she was scared ’s death he up an told her a awful fib bout you an a woman called Kate, whoever she is, an he jest poured the words out fast so she couldn’t speak, an he said things about you he shouldn’t uv, an you could see he was makin it up as he went along, an he said he had proof. So he pointed at a pile of letters on the table an I eyed em good through the hole in the door. Pretty soon he ups and perposes that he carry her off in a carriage he has all ready, and takes her to a friend of his, so she wont be here when you come home, cause you’re so bad, and she gets up looking like she wanted to scream only she didn’t dare, and she says he dont tell the truth, it wasn’t so any of it, and if it was it was all right anyway, that you had some reason, an she wouldn’t go a step with him anywhere. An then he forgets all about the lame ankle he had kept covered up on a chair pertendin it was hurt fallin off his horse when the coach brought him all the way fer I asked Mis’ Green—and he ketches her by the wrists, and he says she can’t go without him, and she needn’t be in such a hurry fer you wouldn’t have no more to do with her anyway after her being shut up there with him so long, an then she looked jest like she was going to faint, an I bust out through the door an ketched up the ink pot, it want heavy enough tokill him, an I slung it at him, an the ink went square in his eyes, an we slipped through the closet an got away quick fore anybody knew a thing.

“I brought all the letters along so here they be. I havn’t read a one, cause I thought mebbe you’d ruther not. She aint seen em neither. She dont know I’ve got em. I hid em in my dress. She’s all wore out with cryin and hurryin, and being scared, so she’s upstairs now asleep, an she dont know I’m writing. I’m goin to send this off fore she knows, fer I think she wouldn’t tell you fear of worryin you. I’ll look after her es well’s I can till you get back, but I think that feller ought to be strung up. But you’ll know what to do, so no more at present from your obedient servent,

“Miranda Griscom.”

Having at last succeeded in sealing her packet to her satisfaction and the diminishing of the stick of sealing wax she had found in the drawer, Miranda slid out the front door, and by a detour went to David Spafford’s office.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Clark,”she said to the clerk importantly.“Grandma sends her respecks and wants to know ef you’d be so kind as to back this letter fer her to Mr. David Spafford. She’s writin’ to him on business an’ she don’t rightly know his street an’ number in New York.”

Mr. Clark willingly wrote the address, and Miranda took it to the post office, and sped back to Marcia, happy in the accomplishment of her purpose.

In the same mail bag that brought Miranda’s package came a letter from Aunt Clarinda. David’s face lit up with a pleased smile. Her letters were so infrequent that they were a rare pleasure. He put aside the thick package written in his clerk’s hand. It was doubtless some business papers and could wait.

Aunt Clarinda wrote in a fine old script that in spite of her eighty years was clear and legible. She told about the beauty of the weather, and how Amelia and Hortense were almost done with the house cleaning, and how Marcia had beengoing to their house every day putting it in order. Then she added a paragraph which David, knowing the old lady well, understood to be theraison d’êtreof the whole letter:

“I think your wife misses you very much, Davie, she looks sort of peeked and sad. It is hard on her being separated from you so long this first year. Men don’t think of those things, but it is lonely for a young thing like her here with three old women, and you know Hortense and Amelia never try to make it lively for anybody. I have been watching her, and I think if I were you I would let the business finish itself up as soon as possible and hurry back to put a bit of cheer into that child. She’s whiter than she ought to be.”

David read it over three times in astonishment with growing, mingled feelings which he could not quite analyze.

Poor Aunt Clarinda! Of course she did not understand the situation, and equally of course she was mistaken. Marcia was not sighing for him, though it might be dull for her at the old house. He ought to have thought of that; and a great burden suddenly settled down upon him. He was not doing right by Marcia. It could not be himself of course that Marcia was missing, if indeed Aunt Clarinda was right and she was worried about anything. Perhaps something had occurred to trouble her. Could that snake of a Temple have turned up again? No, he felt reasonably sure he would have heard of that, besides he saw him not long ago on the street at a distance. Could it be some boy-lover at home whose memory came to trouble her? Or had she discovered what a sacrifice she had made of her young life? Whatever it was, it was careless and cruel in him to have left her alone with his aunts all this time. He was a selfish man, he told himself, to have accepted her quiet little sacrifice of all for him. He read the letter over again, and suddenly there came to him a wish that Marciawasmissing him. It seemed a pleasant thought to have her care. He had been trying to train himself to the fact that no one would ever care for him again,but now it seemed dear and desirable that his sweet young companion should like to have him back. He had a vision of home as it had been, so pleasant and restful, always the food that he liked, always the thought for his wishes, and he felt condemned. He had not noticed or cared. Had she thought him ungrateful?

He read the letter over again, noting every mention of his wife in the account of the daily living at home. He was searching for some clue that would give him more information about her. And when he reached the last paragraph about missing him, a little tingle of pleasure shot through him at the thought. He did not understand it. After all she was his, and if it was possible he must help to make up to her for what she had lost in giving herself to him. If the thought of doing so brought a sense of satisfaction to him that was unexpected, he was not to blame in any wise.

Since his interview with Kate, and the terrible night of agony through which he had passed, David had plunged into his business with all his might. Whenever a thought of Kate came he banished it if possible, and if it would not go he got out his writing materials and went to work at an article, to absorb his mind. He had several times arisen in the night to write because he could not sleep, and must think.

When he was obliged to be in New York he had steadily kept away from the house where Kate lived, and never walked through the streets without occupying his mind as fully as possible so that he should not chance to see her. In this way his sorrow was growing old without having been worn out, and he was really regaining a large amount of his former happiness and interest in life. Not so often now did the vision of Kate come to trouble him. He thought she was still his one ideal of womanly beauty and grace and perfection of course, and always would be, but she was not for him to think upon any more. A strong true man he was growing, out of his sorrow. And now when the thought of Marcia came tohim with a certain sweetness he could be glad that it was so, and not resent it. Of course no one could ever take the place of Kate, that was impossible.

So reflecting, with a pleasant smile upon his face, he opened Miranda’s epistle.

Puzzled and surprised he began to read the strange chirography, and as he read his face darkened and he drew his brows in a heavy frown.“The scoundrel!”he muttered as he turned the sheet. Then as he went on his look grew anxious. He scanned the page quickly as if he would gather the meaning from the crooked ill-spelled words without taking them one by one. But he had to go slowly, for Miranda had not written with as much plainness as haste. He fairly held his breath when he thought of the gentle girl in the hands of the unscrupulous man of the world. A terrible fear gripped his heart, Marcia, little Marcia, so sweet and pure and good. A vision of her face as she lay asleep in the woods came between him and the paper. Why had he left her unprotected all these months? Fool that he was! She was worth more than all the railroads put together. As if his own life was in the balance, he read on, growing sick with horror. Poor child! what had she thought? And how had his own sin and weakness been found out, or was it merely Harry Temple’s wicked heart that had evolved these stories? The letter smote him with terrible accusation, and all at once it was fearful to him to think that Marcia had heard such things about him. When he came to her trust in him he groaned aloud and buried his face in the letter, and then raised it quickly to read to the end.

When he had finished he rose with sudden determination to pack his carpet-bag and go home at once. Marcia needed him, and he felt a strong desire to be near her, to see her and know she was safe. It was overwhelming. He had not known he could ever feel strongly again. He must confess his own weakness of course, and he would. She should know all and know that she might trust his after all.

But the motion of rising had sent the other papers to the floor, and in falling the bundle of letters that Miranda had enclosed, scattered about him. He stooped to pick them up and saw his own name written in Kate’s handwriting. Old association held him, and wondering, fearful, not wholly glad to see it, he picked up the letter. It was an epistle of Kate’s, written in intimate style to Harry Temple and speaking of himself in terms of the utmost contempt. She even stooped to detail to Harry an account of her own triumph on that miserable morning when he had taken her in his arms and kissed her. There were expressions in the letter that showed her own wicked heart, as nothing else could ever have done, to David. As he read, his soul growing sick within him,—read one letter after another, and saw how she had plotted with this bad man to wreck the life of her young sister for her own triumph and revenge,—the beautiful woman whom he had loved, and whom he had thought beautiful within as well as without, crumbled into dust before him. When he looked up at last with white face and firmly set lips, he found that his soul was free forever from the fetters that had bound him to her.

He went to the fireplace and laid the pile of letters among the embers, blowing them into a blaze, and watched them until they were eaten up by the fire and nothing remained but dead grey ashes. The thought came to him that that was like his old love. It was burnt out. There had not been the right kind of fuel to feed it. Kate was worthless, but his own self was alive, and please God he would yet see better days. He would go home at once to the child wife who needed him, and whom now he might love as she should be loved. The thought became wondrously sweet to him as he rapidly threw the things into his travelling bag and went about arrangements for his trip home. He determined that if he ever came to New York again Marcia should come with him.

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