"All right," said the woman, whose face was completely cleared up and looked pleasanter than Rotha could ever have believed possible. "Prissy Purcell will get you a good dinner."
So the storm was laid; and Rotha went slowly up stairs, feeling devoutly thankful for that, but very, very sorrowful on her own account. Her, fancy was busy, all the while she was putting her room in order, with the possible future; feeling utterly doubtful of her aunt, in every possible respect, and very sad and depressed in view of her condition and in view of the extreme difficulty of mending it. Then flashed into her mind what she had been saying down stairs; and then, what she had been reading and thinking last night. To do her work, to trust the Lord, andto be content, were the duties that lay nearest to hand.
The duties were far easier to see than to fulfil; however, Rotha took hold of the easiest first, and prayed her way toward the others. She got out her sewing; obviously, Mrs. Busby knew what she was about when she provided those calico dresses. The stuff was strong and troublesome to sew; the needle went through hard. Rotha sewed on it all day; and indeed for many days more. She kept at her work diligently, as I said, praying her way toward perfect trust and quiet content. In her solitude she made her Bible her companion; one may easily have a worse; and setting it open at some word of command or promise, she refreshed herself with a look at it from time to time, and while her needle flew, turned over the words in her mind and wrought them into prayer. And indeed Rotha had loved her Bible before; but after two weeks of this way of life she loved it after a new fashion, such as she had never known. It became sweet inexpressibly, and living; so that she seemed to hear the words spoken to her from heaven. And those days of solitary work grew into some of the loveliest days Rotha had ever seen. She would take her "Treasury," choose some particular thought or promise to start with, and from that go through a series of passages, explaining, elucidating, illustrating, enjoining, conditioning, applying, the original word. The care of her room, and carrying water up and down, gave her some exercise; not enough; but Rotha would not indulge herself with out of door amusement till her mantua making was done.
She hoped for some temporary release from her prison when Sunday came. She was disappointed. May sent another pouring rain, and no going out was to be thought of.
"Where do you go to church? when the sun shines," asked Rotha, as she sat at the breakfast-table and looked at the rain driving past the window. Silence answered her at first.
"Wheredoyou go, Joe?" repeated his wife, with a laugh. "Us is wicked folks, Miss Carpenter. Joe, he don't like to tell on hisself; but 'taint no worse to tell 'u not to tell. So Prissy Purcell thinks."
"Warn't the Sabbath made for rest?" Joe inquired now, with a gleam in his eyes.
"For rest from our own work," said Rotha wonderingly.
"Prissy and me, we haint no other; and it's a blessin' we haven't, for we get powerful tired at that. Aint that so, Prissy?"
"Don't you go to church anywhere?"
"Aint anywheres to go!" said Joe. "Aint no church nowheres, short o' Tanfield; and there's a difficulty. Suppos'n' I tackled up the bosses and went to Tanfield; by the time we got there, and heerd a sermon, and come back, and untackled, and put the hosses up and cleaned myself again, my day o' rest 'ud be pretty much nowhere. An' I don' know which sermon I'd want to hear, o' the three, if I was there. I aint no Episcopal; and I never did hold with the Methody's; and 'tother man, I'd as lieve set up a dip candle and have it preach to me. Looks like it, too."
Rotha was in silent dismay. Tanfield was too far to go on foot and alone. Not even Sunday? I am afraid a good part of that Sunday was wasted in tears.
The next morning brought a fresh difficulty. It suddenly flashed uponRotha that she must have some clothes washed.
That she should ask Mrs. Purcell to do it, was out of the question. That she should hire somebody else to do it, was equally out of the question. There remained—her own two hands.
Her hands. Must she put them into the wash tub? Must they be roughened and reddened by hard work in hot and cold water? I am afraid pride had something to say here, besides the fastidious delicacy of refinement to which for a long while Rotha bad been accustomed, and which exactly suited the nature that was born with the girl. She went through a hard struggle and a painful one, before she could take meekly what was put upon her. But itwasput upon her; there was no other way; and there is no mistake and no oversight in God's dealings with his children. What he does not want them to do, he does not give them to do. It cost Rotha a good while of her time that morning, but at last she did see it, and then she accepted it. If God gave it to her to do, there could be no evil in the doing of it, and no hurt, and no disgrace. What she could do for God, was therewith lifted up out of the sphere of the low and common. Even the censers of Korah's wicked company were holy, because they had been used for the Lord; much more simple service from a believing heart. After a while Rotha's mind swung quite clear of all its embarrassments, and she saw her duty clear and took it up willingly. She went down at once then to the kitchen, where Mrs. Purcell was flying about with double activity. It certainly seemed that the rest of the Sunday had added wings to her heels.
"Do you wash this morning, Mrs. Purcell?"
"Yes. I aint one o' them as likes shovin' it off till the end o' the week. If I can't wash Monday, Prissy Purcell aint good to live with."
"When will be a convenient time for me to do my washing?"
"Ha' you things to wash?"
"Yes, I am sorry to say. You will lend me a tub, and a little soap, won't you?"
"I don' know whether I will or not. Suppos'n you've got the tub, do you know how to get your things clean? I don' believe you never done it."
"No, I have never done it. But I can learn."
"I guess it'd be more trouble to learn you, than to do the things. You fetch 'em here, and I'll do 'em my own self."
"But I cannot pay you a cent for it, Mrs. Purcell; not now, at least.You'll have to take it on trust, if you do this for me."
"All right," said Prissy. "You go fetch the things, 'cause I'm bound to have my tubs out o' the way before dinner."
Rotha obeyed, wondering and thankful. The woman was entirely changed towards her; abrupt and unconventional, certainly, in manner and address, but nevertheless shewing real care and kindness; and shewing moreover what a very handsome woman she could be. Her smile was frank and sweet; her face when at rest very striking for its fine contour; and her figure was stately. Moreover, she was an uncommonly good cook; so that the viands, though plain, were made both wholesome and appetizing. In that respect Rotha did not suffer; the exclusive companionship of two such ignorant and unrefined persons was a grievance on the other hand which pressed harder every day.
She kept herself busy. When her dresses were done, she began to spend hours a day out of doors.
The sweet things in the flower borders which were choked and hindered by wild growth and weeds, moved her sympathy; she got a hoe and rake and fork from Mr. Purcell and set about a systematic clearing of the ground. It was a spacious curve from one gate to the other; and all the way went the flower border at one side of the road, and all the way on the other side, except where the house came in. Rotha could do but a little piece a day; but the beauty and pleasantness of that lured her on to spend as much time in the work as she could match with the necessary strength. It was so pretty to see the flowers in good circumstances again! Here a sweet Scotch rose, its graceful growth covered with wild-looking, fair blossoms; here a bed of lily of the valley; close by a carpet of lovely moss pink, which when cleared of encumbering weedy growth that half hid it, fairly greeted Rotha like a smile whenever she went out. And periwinkle also ran in a carpet over the ground, green with purple stars; daffodils were passing away, but pleasant yet to see; and little tufts of polyanthus and here and there a red tulip shewed now in all their delicate beauty, scarcely seen before. Hypericum came out gloriously, when an intrusive and overgrown lilac bush was cut away; and syringa was almost as good as jessamine, Rotha thought; little red poppies began to lift their slender heads, and pansies appeared, and June roses were getting ready to bloom. And as long as Rotha could busy herself in the garden work, she was happy; she forgot all that she had to trouble her; even when Prissy Purcell came out to see and criticise what was going on.
"What are you doin' all that for?" the latter asked one day, after standing some time watching Rotha's work. "Are you thinkin' Mis' Busby'll come by and by?"
"My aunt? No indeed!" said Rotha looking up with a flush. "I have no idea when I shall see my aunt again; and certainly I do not expect to see her here."
"Somebody else, then?"
"Why no! There is nobody to come."
"Didn't you never have a beau?" said Prissy Purcell, stooping down and speaking lower.
"Awhat?" said Rotha turning to her.
"A beau. A young man. Most girls does, when they're as good-lookin' as you be. You know what I mean. Didn't you never keep company with no one?"
"Keep company!" said Rotha, half vexed and half amused. "Mrs. Purcell, I was a little girl only just a few days ago."
"But you're as handsome as a red rose," insisted Mrs. Purcell. "Didn't you never yet see nobody you liked more 'n common?"
Rotha looked at her again, and then went on forking up her ground. "Yes," she said; "but people a great deal older than myself, Mrs. Purcell. Now see how that beautiful stem of white lilies is choked and covered up. A little while longer and we shall have a lovely head of white blossom bells there."
"Older 'n your own self?" repeated Mrs. Purcell softly.
"What?—O yes!" said Rotha laughing; "a great deal older than myself. Not what you are thinking about. I have been a school girl till I came here, Mrs. Purcell."
"Then Mis' Busby didn't send you here to keep you away from no one?"
Again Rotha looked in the woman's face, a half startled look this time. "No one, that I know," she answered. But a strange, doubtful feeling therewith came over her, and for a moment she stood still, with her eye going off to the gate and the road, musing. If it were so!—and a terrible impatience swelled in her breast. Ay, if itwereso, there was no help for her. She could not get away, and nobody could come to her, because nobody knew and nobody would know where she was. Even supposing that so unimportant a person as poor little Rotha Carpenter were not already and utterly forgotten. That was most probable, and anything different was not to be assumed. Continued care for her would have forwarded some testimonials of its existence, in letters or messages. Who should say that it had not? was the next instant thought. They would have come to her aunt, and her aunt would never have delivered them.
This sort of speculation, natural enough, is besides very exasperating. It broke up Rotha's peace for that day and took all the pleasure out of her garden work. She went on pulling up weeds and forking up the soil, but she did the one with a will and the other with a vengeance; staid out longer than usual, and came in tired.
"Joe," said Mrs. Purcell meanwhile in the solitude of her kitchen, "I'll bet you a cookie, Mis' Busby's up to some tricks!"
The weeks went on now without any change but the changes of the season. Rotha's flower borders bloomed up into beauty; somewhat old-fashioned beauty, but none the worse for that. Hypericum and moss pink faded away; the roses blossomed and fell; sweet English columbines lifted their sonsy heads, pale blue and pale rose, and dark purple; poppies sprang up, as often in the gravel road as in the beds; lilies came and went; the laburnum shook out its clusters of gold; old honeysuckles freshened out and filled all the air with the fragrance of their very sweet flowers. Rotha's tulip tree came into blossom, and was a beautiful object from her high window which looked right into the heart of it. Rotha grew very fond of that tulip tree. There were fruits too. The door in the fence, which she had noticed on her first expedition to the barnyard, was found to be the entrance to a large kitchen garden. Truly, Joe Purcell cultivated few vegetables; cabbages however were in number and variety, also potatoes, and that resource of the poor, onions.
The fruits were little cared for; still, there were numbers of purple raspberry bushes trained along the fence, which yielded a good supply of berries; there were strawberry beds, grown up with weeds, where good picking was to found if any one wanted to take the trouble. Gooseberries were in great profusion, and currants in multitude. Old cherry trees, which shaded parts of the garden disadvantageously for the under growth, yielded a magnificent harvest of Maydukes, white hearts and ox hearts; and pear trees and mulberry trees were not wanting, promising later crops. Mr. and Mrs. Purcell had paid little attention to these treasures; Joe hadn't time, he said; and Prissy wouldn't be bothered with gathering berries after all the rest she had to do. Rotha made it her own particular task to supply the little family with fruit; and it was one of the pieces of work she most enjoyed. Very early, most often, while the sun's rays yet came well aslant, she set off for the old garden with her basket on her arm; and brought in such loads of nature's riches that Joe and his wife declared they had never lived so in their lives. It was lonely but sweet work to Rotha to gather the fruit. The early summer mornings are some of the most wonderful times of the year, for the glory and fulness and freshness of nature; the spirit of life and energy abroad is catching; and sometimes Rotha's heart sang with the birds. For she had a happy faculty of living in the present moment, and throwing herself wholly into the work she might be about, forgetting care and trouble for the time. Other mornings and evenings, she would almost forget the present in thoughts that roamed the past and the future. Pushing her hand among the dewy tufts of strawberry plants to seek the red fruit which had grown large under the shadow of them, her mind would go wandering and searching among old experiences to find out the hidden motives and reasons which had been at work, or the hidden issues which must still be waited for. At such times Rotha would come in thoughtful and tired. How long would her aunt leave her in this place? and how, if her aunt did not release her, was she ever to release herself? What was Mrs. Mowbray about, that she never wrote? several letters had been sent off to her, now a good while ago; letters telling all, and seeking counsel and comfort. No word came back. And oh, where was that once friend, who had told her to tell him everything that concerned her, and promised, tacitly or in so many words, that her applications would never be disregarded nor herself lost sight of? Years had passed now since he had given a sign of his existence, much less a token of his care. But after all, was that a certain thing? Was it not possible, that Mrs. Busby might have come in between, and prevented any letter or word of Mr. Digby's from reaching her? This sort of speculation always made Rotha feel wild and desperate; she banished it as much as she could; for however the case were, she possessed no remedy.
June passed, and July, and August came. No word from Mrs. Busby to Rotha, and Joe Purcell said none came for him. The raspberries were gone, and currants and gooseberries in full harvest; when there happened an unlocked for and unwelcome variety in Rotha's way of life. Mrs. Purcell was taken ill. It was nothing but chills and fever, the doctor said; but chills and fever are pretty troublesome visiters if you do not know how to get rid of them; and that this doctor certainly did not. It may be said, that he had a difficult patient. Prissy Purcell was unaccustomed to follow any will but her own, and made the time of sickness no exception to her habit. With a chill on her she would get up to make bread; with the "sick day" demanding absolute rest and quiet care, she would go out to the garden to gather cabbages, and stand about preparing them and getting ready her dinner; till provoked nature took her revenge and sent the chill creeping over her. Then Prissy would (if it was not baking day) throw down whatever she had in hand and go to her bed; and it fell to Rotha's unwonted fingers to put on the pot and cook the dinner, set the table and wash the dishes, even the pots and pans; for somebody must do it, as she reflected, and poor Mrs. Purcell would come out of her bed in the evening a mere wreck of her usual self, very unfit to do anything.
It was a strange experience, for Rotha to be cooking Joe Purcell's dinner and then eating it with him; making gruel and toast for Prissy and serving it to her; keeping the kitchen in order; sweeping, dusting, mopping, scrubbing, for even that could not be avoided sometimes. "It is my work," Rotha said to herself; "it is what is given me just now to do. I wonder, why? But all the same, it is given; and there must be some use in it." She was very busy oftentimes now, without the help of her flower borders, which had to be neglected; she rejoiced that the small fruit was gone, or nearly gone; from morning to night, when Prissy was abed, she went steadily from one thing to another with scarce any interval of active work. No study now but her Bible study; and to have time for that, Rotha must get up very early in the morning. Then, at her window, with the glory of the summer day just coming upon the outer world, she sat and read and thought and prayed; her eyes going alternately from her open page to the green and golden depths of the tulip tree opposite her window; looking the while with her mental eye at the fresh and glorious riches of some promise or prophecy. Perhaps Rotha never enjoyed her Bible more, nor ever would, only that with growing experience in the ways of the Lord comes ever new power to see the beauties of them, and with greater knowledge of him comes a larger love.
August passed, and September came. And September also ran its course. The weather grew calm and clear, and began to be crisp with frost, and the outer world beautified with red maple leaves and crimson creepers and golden hickory trees. Prissy got better and took her former place in the house; and therewith Rotha had time to breathe and bethink herself.
Her aunt must long since be returned from Chicago. Once a scrap of a note had been received from her, but it told nothing. It was not dated, and the postmark was not New York. It told absolutely nothing, even indirectly. Airs. Mowbray must long since have reopened her school, but it seemed to be tacitly agreed upon that Rotha was to go to school no more. What were all the people about? there seemed to be a spell upon Rotha and her affairs, as much as if she had been a princess in a fairy tale enchanted and turned to stone, or put to sleep; only she was not turned to stone at all, but all alive and quivering with pain and fear and anxiety. It was her life that was spell-bound. A thousand times she revolved the possibility of going into some work by which she could make money; and always had to give it up. She saw nobody, knew nobody, could apply to no one. She had used up all her writing paper in letters; and never an answer did she get. She began to think indeed her world was bewitched. Winter was looming up in the distance, not so very far off neither; was she to pass ithere, alone with Prissy Purcell and her husband? Sometimes Rotha's courage gave way and she shed bitter tears; other times, when she was dressing her flowers in the long beds, or when she was looking into the tulip tree with some sweet word of the Bible in her mind, she could even smile at her prospect, and trust, and be quiet, and wait. However, as the autumn wore on, I am afraid the quiet was more and more broken up and the trust more sorrowful.
It was on one of these evenings of early October, that Mr. Southwode presented himself, after so long an interval, at Mrs. Busby's door. Nothing was changed, to all appearance, in the house; it might have been but yesterday that he walked out of it for the last time; and nothing was changed in the appearance of Mr. Southwode himself. Just as he came three years ago, he came now.
Mrs. Busby was alone in her drawing room, and advanced to meet him with outstretched hand and an expression of great welcome. She had not changed either, unless for the better. Her visiter recognized, as he had often done before, the expression of sense and character in her face, the quiet suavity of her manner, the many indications that here was what is called a fine woman. About the goodness of this fine woman he was not so sure; but he paid her a tribute of involuntary respect for her abilities, her cleverness, and her good manners.
"Mr. Southwode! I am delighted to see you!" she exclaimed as she advanced to meet him, cordially, and yet with quiet dignity; not too cordial. "You have been a stranger to New York a great while."
"Yes," he said. "Much longer than I anticipated."
"I thought we should hardly ever see you here again."
"Why not?" he asked with a smile.
"Want of sufficient attraction. You know, we are apt to think here that Englishmen, if they are well placed in their own country, do not want anything of other countries. They are on the very height of civilization, and of everything else. They have enough. And certainly, America cannot offer them much."
"America is a large field for work,"—Mr. Southwode observed.
"Ah yes; but what country is not? I dare say you find enough to do on the other side. Do you not?"
"I have no difficulty on that score," Mr. Southwode confessed; "on either side of the Atlantic."
"We were very glad to hear of the successful termination of your lawsuit," Mrs. Busby went on. "I may congratulate you, may I not? I know you do not set an over value on the goods of fortune; but at the same time, it always seems to me that the possessor of great means has a great advantage. It is true, wealth is a flood in which many people's heads and hearts are submerged; but that would never be your case, I judge."
"I would rather be drowned in some other medium," he allowed.
"Well, we heard right? The decisions were in your favour, and triumphantly?"
"They were in my favour, and unconditionally. I did not feel that there was much to triumph about, or can be, in a family lawsuit."
"No; they are very sad things. I am very glad you are out of them, and so well out of them."
"Thank you. How are my young friends in the family?"
"The girls? Quite well, thank you, They are unluckily neither of them at home."
"Not at home! I am sorry for that. How hasmychild developed?" he asked with a slight smile.
"She has grown into a young woman," Mrs. Busby answered, with one of those utterly imperceptible, yet thoroughly perceived, changes of manner which speak of a mental check received or a mental protest made. It was not a change of manner either; nothing so tangible; I cannot tell what it was in her expression that Mr. Southwode instantly saw and felt, and that put him upon his guard and upon his mettle at once. Mrs. Busby had drawn her shawl closer round her; that was all the outward gesture. She always wore a shawl. In winter it was thick and in summer it was gossamer; but one way or another a shawl seemed essential to Mrs. Busby's well-being. What Mr. Southwode gathered from her words was a covert rebuke and rebuff. He was informed that Rotha was grown up.
"It is hard to realize that," he said lightly. "It seems but the other day that I left her; and since then, nothing else has changed!"
"She has changed," said Mrs. Busby drily.
"May I ask, how?—besides the physical difference, which to be sure was to be looked for?"
"I do not know that there is any other particular change."
"That would disappoint me," said Mr. Southwode. "I hoped to find a good deal of mental growth and improvement as the fruit of these three years. She has been at school all the time?"
"Yes."
"What is her school record?"
"Very fairly good," said Mrs. Busby, turning her eyes now upon the young man, whom for the last few minutes they had avoided. "I did not know you were so much interested in Rotha, Mr. Southwode."
"She was my charge, you are aware. Her mother left her to my care."
"Until she was placed in mine," said Mrs. Busby with dignity. "I hope you believe that I am able to take good care of her?"
"I should be very sorry to doubt that, and no one who knows Mrs. Busby could question it for a moment. But a charge is a charge, you know. To resign it or delegate it is not optional. I regard myself as Rotha's guardian always, and it was as her guardian that I entrusted her to you."
Mrs. Busby did not answer this, and did not change a muscle in face or figure.
"And so," Mr. Southwode went on, smiling,—he was amused, and he appreciated Mrs. Busby,—"it is as her guardian that I am asking an account of her now."
"I have given it," said Mrs. Busby; and she moved her lips as if they were dry, which however her utterance was not. It was pleasant.
"The young ladies can hardly be expected home early, I suppose?" said Mr.Southwode, looking at his watch.
"Hardly"—returned Mrs. Busby in the same way.
"When can I see Rotha to-morrow?"
"To-morrow," said Mrs. Busby, speaking leisurely, "you will hardly see her. She is not at home. I said that before, but you understood me to speak of the evening merely."
"Where is she then? I can go to her."
"No, you cannot," said Mrs. Busby half smiling, but it was not a smileMr. Southwode liked. "She is at a friend's house in the country."
"Not in New York! How long do you expect her to be absent?"
"That I cannot possibly tell. It depends on circumstances that I do not know."
Mr. Southwode pondered. "Will you favour me with her address?" he asked, taking out his notebook.
"It is not worth the while," said the lady quietly. "She is at a considerable distance from New York, too far for you to go to her; and she may be home any day. It depends, as I said, on what I do not now know."
"And may be delayed yet for some time, then?"
"Possibly."
"Will you give me her address, Mrs. Busby."
Mr. Southwode's pencil was ready, but instead of giving him something to do with it, Mrs. Busby rang the bell. Pencil and notebook waited.
"Lesbia, go up to my dressing room and bring me a little green book with a clasp lying on my table there."
A few minutes of silence and waiting; then Lesbia returned with the announcement, "There aint no sort o' little book there, Mis' Busby. There's a heap o' big ones, but they aint green."
"Go again and look in the left hand drawer."
Lesbia came again. "Aint nothin' there but papers."
"That will do. Mr. Southwode, I have not my address book, and without that I cannot give you what you want. The name of the post-office town is very peculiar, and I always forget it. But I can write to Rotha to-morrow and summon her, if you think it necessary."
"Would that be an inexpedient measure?"
"You must judge. I have not thought best to do it; but if it is necessaryI can do it now."
"I will not give you so much trouble. If you will allow me, I will come again to morrow evening, and get the address."
"To-morrow evening!" said the lady slowly. "I am very sorry, I have an engagement; I shall not be at home to-morrow evening."
Why did it not occur to Mrs. Busby to say that she would leave the address for him, if he would call for it? Mr. Southwode quietly put up his pencil, and remarked that another time would do; and passed on easily to make inquiries about what New York had been doing since he went away? Mrs. Busby told him of certain buildings and plans for buildings here and there, and then suddenly asked,
"When did you come, Mr. Southwode?"
"I landed to-day."
"To-day! Rotha would be very much flattered if she knew how prompt you have been to seek her out."
It was said with a manner meant to be smoothly insinuating, but which somehow had missed the smoothness. Mrs. Busby for that moment had lost the hold she usually kept of herself.
"Rotha would expect no less of me," Mr. Southwode answered calmly.
"Then you and she must have been great friends before you went away? greater then I knew."
"Did Rotha not credit me with so much?" he asked with a smile, which covered a sharp observation of the lady, examining him.
"To tell you the truth," said Mrs. Busby, with a manner which was intended to be gracious, "I did not encourage her. Knowing what gentlemen, and young gentlemen, generally are, I thought it unlikely that you would much remember Rotha amid the pressure of your business in England, and very likely that things might turn out so that she would never see you again. I expected every day to hear that you were married; and of course that would have been an end of your interest in her."
"Why do you think so, may I ask?"
"Why?Every woman knows," said Mrs. Busby in amused fashion.
"I will not marry till I find a woman that does not know," said Mr.Southwode shaking his head.
"Now that is unreasonable, Mr. Southwode."
"I do not think so. Prove it."
"I cannot prove it to a man. I have only a woman's knowledge, of what he does not understand. And besides, Mr. Southwode, it is quite right and proper that it should be so. A man shall leave his father and mother and cleave to his wife; and if his father and mother, surely everybody else."
"As I am not married, the case does not come under consideration," said the gentleman carelessly. And after a pause he went on—"I have written several letters to Rotha during the time of my absence, and addressed them to your care. Did you receive them safe?"
"I received several—I do not at this moment recollect just how many."
"Do you know why they were never answered?"
"I suppose I do," said Mrs. Busby composedly. "Rotha has been exceedingly engrossed with her studies."
"She had vacations?"
"O certainly. She had vacations."
"Then can you tell me, Mrs. Busby, why Rotha never wrote to me?"
"I am afraid I cannot tell you," the lady answered slowly, looking into the fire.
"Do you think Rotha has forgotten me?"
"It is not like her, I should say, to forget. I never hear her mention you. But then, I see her little except in the vacations, and not always then; she was often carried off from me."
"By whom, may I ask?"
"O by her school teacher."
"And that was—? Pardon me, but it concerns me to know all about Rotha I can."
"I am not sure if I am justified in telling you."
"Why not?"
"I think," said Mrs. Busby with an appearance of candour, "my guardianship is the proper one for her. How can you be her guardian, while she lives in my house, Mr. Southwode? Or how can you be her guardian out of it?"
"I promised her mother," he said. "How a promise shall be fulfilled, may admit of question; but not whether it shall be fulfilled."
"I know of but one way," Mrs. Busby went on, eyeing him now intently. "If you tell me you are intending to takethatway,—then I have no more to say, of course. But I know of but one way in which it can be done."
Mr. Southwode laughed a little, a low, soft laugh, that in him always meant amusement. "I did not promisethatto her mother," he said, "and I cannot promise it to you. It might be convenient, but I do not contemplate it."
"Then, Mr. Southwode, I feel it my duty to request that you fulfil your promise by acting through me."
It was well enough said; it was not without some ground of reason. If he could have felt sure of Mrs. Busby, it might have received, partially at least, his concurrence. But he was as far as possible from feeling sure of Mrs. Busby; and rather gave her credit for playing a clever mask. Upon a little pause which followed the last words, there came a ring at the door and the entrance of the young lady of the house. Antoinette was grown up excessively pretty, and was dressed to set off her prettiness. Her mother might be pardoned for viewing her with secret pride and exultation, if not for the thrill of jealous fear which accompanied the proud joy. That anybody should stand in this beauty's way!
"Mr. Southwode!" exclaimed the young lady. "It is Mr. Southwode come back. Why, Mr. Southwode, what has kept you so long? We heard you were coming five months ago. Why didn't you come then?"
Mrs. Busby wished her daughter had not said that.
"There were reasons—not interesting enough to occupy your ear with them."
"'Occupy my ear'!" repeated the girl. "That is something new. Mamma, isn't that deliciously polite! Well, what made you stay away so long, Mr. Southwode? I like to have my ear occupied."
"Should not people stay where they belong?"
"And do you belong in England?"
"I suppose, in a measure, I may say I do."
"You talk foolishly, Antoinette," her mother put in. "Don't you know thatMr. Southwode's home is in England?"
"People can change their homes, mamma. Then, you are not going to stay long, Mr. Southwode?"
"I do not know how long. That is an undecided point."
"And what have you come over for now?"
"Antoinette!" said her mother again. "I do not know if you can excuse her, Mr. Southwode; she is entirely too out-spoken. That is a question you have nothing to do with, Nettie."
"Why not, mamma? He has come for something; and if it is business, or travelling, or hunting, I would like to know."
"Hunting, at this time of year!" said Mrs. Busby.
"I might say it is business," said Mr. Southwode. "In one part of my business, perhaps you can help me."
Antoinette pricked up her ears delightedly, and eagerly asked how? and what?
"I made it part of my business to inquire about a little girl that I left three years ago under your mother's care."
"Rotha!" exclaimed Antoinette; and a cloudy shadow of displeasure and suspicion forthwith fell over her face; not tinder such good control as her mother's. "A little girl! She was not so very little."
"What sort of a girl has she turned out to be?"
"Not little now, I can tell you. She is a great deal bigger than I am. So you came to see about Rotha?"
"What can you tell me about her?"
"What do you want to know?"
"Nothing but the truth," said Mr. Southwode gravely.
"But the truth about what? Rotha is just what she used to be."
"Not changed except in inches?"
"Inches!Feet!—" said Antoinette. "We don't think about inches when we look at her. I don't know about anything else. If you want an account of her studies you must ask somebody at school."
"Her teacher was yours?"
"O yes. Lately, you know, we were both in the upper class; and of course we were together in Mrs. Mowbray's lessons; but then in other things we were apart."
"How was that?"
"Studied different things," said Antoinette shortly. "Had different masters. I can't tell you about Rotha's lessons, if you want to know that." She was pulling off her gloves as she spoke, and tugged at them with an appearance of vexation, which might be due to their excellent fit and consequent difficulty of removal.
"Has she proved herself a pleasant inmate of the family?"
"She has been rather an inmate of Mrs. Mowbray's family," said Antoinette. "Mrs. Mowbray has swallowed her up and carried her off from us.Wedon't see much of her."
"Antoinette," said her mother here, "Mr. Southwode wants to know Rotha's address; and I cannot give him the name of the place. Can you help me recollect it?"
"Never knew it, mamma. I didn't know the place had a name. I can't recollect what I never heard."
"There must be a post-office," Mr. Southwode remarked.
"Must there? O I suppose there must, somewhere; but I don't know it."
"Lesbia could not find my address book," Mrs. Busby added.
"It is a matter of no consequence," Mr. Southwode rejoined. And he presently after took his leave. A moment's silence followed his departure.
"There was no need to tell him you did not know the post-office town," said Mrs. Busby. "That was as much as to say, you never write."
"What should I write for?" returned Antoinette defiantly. "Mamma! was that all he came for? to ask about Rotha?"
"All that he came here for," said Mrs. Busby, with lines in her brow and a compressed mouth. "I wish you had not told him where Rotha went to school, either."
"Why?"
"Just as well not to say it."
"But what harm? He could ask, if he wanted to know; and then you would have to tell. What does he want her address for?"
"I don't know; but I can manage that, well enough. He knows nothing aboutTanfield."
"Mamma! I wish Rotha had never come to us!" cried Antoinette with tears in her eyes.
"Don't be foolish, Antoinette. Mr. Southwode will be here again in a day or two; and then leave things to me."
Mr. Southwode meantime walked slowly and thoughtfully to the corner of the street. By that time his manner changed; and he hailed a horse car and sprang into it like a man who was suffering from no indecision in either his views or purposes. Oddly enough, the very name which Antoinette had comforted herself with thinking he did not know, had suddenly occurred to him, together with a long-ago proposition of Mrs. Busby to her sister in the latter's time of need. He had pretty well made up his mind.
Half an hour later Mr. Southwode was announced to Mrs. Mowbray.
Mrs. Mowbray recollected him; she never forgot anybody, or failed to catalogue anybody rightly in the vast collections and stores of her memory. She received Mr. Southwode therefore with the gracious courtesy and dignity which was habitual with her, and with the full measure also of her usual reserve and quick observation.
After a few commonplaces respecting his absence and his return, Mr. Southwode begged to ask if Mrs. Busby's niece, Miss Carpenter, were in her house or school?
"Miss Carpenter is not with me," Mrs. Mowbray answered guardedly.
"But she has been with you, if I understand aright?"
"She has been with me until lately."
"Are you informed that she will not return?"
"By no means! I am expecting to see her or hear from her every day. O by no means. Miss Carpenter ought to remain with me several years yet. I shall be much disappointed if she do not. It is one great mistake of parents now-a-days, that they do not give me time enough. The first two or three years can but lay a foundation, on which to build afterwards."
"May I ask, if the foundation has been successfully laid in Miss Carpenter's case? I am interested to know; because Mrs. Carpenter when she died left her child to my care; and I hold myself responsible for what concerns her."
Mrs. Mowbray hesitated slightly. "Where was Mrs. Busby?" she asked then.
"Here; but there was no intercourse between the sisters."
"Was it not by her mother's wish that Miss Carpenter was placed with her aunt?"
"No. I acted on no authority but my own."
"What sort of a woman was Mrs. Carpenter?"
"A very admirable woman. A sweet, sound, noble nature, with a great deal of quiet strength."
"Is her daughter like her?"
"Not in the least. I do not mean that she lacks some of her mother's good qualities; but they are developed differently, and with a wholly different background of temperament."
"Was there a feud between the sisters, or anything like it?"
Mr. Southwode hesitated. "I know the story," he said. "Mrs. Carpenter never complained; but I think another woman would, in her place."
"Will you allow me to ask, how she came to entrust her child to you?"
"I was the only friend at hand. And now," Mr. Southwode went on smiling, "may I be permitted to ask another question or two? When have you heard from Miss Carpenter?"
"Not a word all summer. In the spring my school was broken up, on account of sickness in the house; I sent Rotha home to her aunt; and since then I have heard nothing from her. Not a word."
"You do not know then of course where she is?"
"With her aunt, I suppose, of course. Is she not with Mrs. Busby?"
"She is making a visit somewhere, Mrs. Busby tells me." And he hesitated."Has Rotha's home been happy with her aunt?"
"That is a question I never ask. Rotha does not complain."
"I need not ask whether her abode has been happyhere," said the gentleman smiling again; "but, has she been a satisfactory member of your school?"
"Perfectly so! Of my school and family."
"You are satisfied with her studies, her progress in them, I mean?"
"Perfectly. I never taught any one with more pleasure or better results."
"I am very glad to hear that," said Mr. Southwode. And he took his leave.
The very next train for Tanfield carried him northward.
The next day, which was the 24th of October, passed as other days of less significance had done. At dinner Mrs. Purcell complained of Rotha's failure of appetite. Rotha had been down-hearted all the morning. Seven days more, and November would begin!
"You don't eat worth a red cent!" said Mrs. Purcell. "Aint that a good pot pie?"
"Excellent! The queen of England couldn't have a better."
"If she hasn't a better appetite she won't be queen long. Why don't ye eat?"
"Sometimes I can't, Prissy."
"What ails you?"
"Nothing. I get thinking; that's all."
"Joe," said his wife, "what's Mis' Busby doin'?"
"Couldn't say."
"Where is she? Why don't she come after Miss Rotha?"
"I s'pose she's busy with her own affairs. If she' had consulted me, I could ha' told you more."
"If she ever consults you, I hope you'll give her some good advice. She wants it bad!"
"I guess I will," said Mr. Purcell, lounging out. "If I don't, you kin."
Rotha wished to escape further remark or enquiry, and went out too. She would divert herself with gathering a great bunch of the fall flowers and dress some dishes. She often refreshed herself and refined the tea-table with a nosegay dressed in the middle of it, especially as it seemed to give not less pleasure to her entertainers than to her. She went now slowly down the gravelled drive, filling her hands as she went with asters, chrysanthemums, late honeysuckles, and bits of green from box and cedar and feathery larches. She went slowly, thinking hard all the way, and feeling very blue indeed. She saw no opening out of her troubles, and she strongly suspected that her aunt meant there should be none. What was to become of her? True, it flashed into her mind, "The Lord is my Shepherd";—but the sheep was taking it into her head to think for herself, and could not see that the path she was following would end in anything but disaster and famishing. If she could but get out of this path——
Ah, silly sheep!
Rotha found herself at the gate leading into the high road; the gate by which she had been admitted so many months ago, and which she had never passed through since. She did not open it now; she stood still, resting one hand on the bars of it and gazing off along the road that led to Tanfield. It was quite empty; there was little passing along that road in the best of times, and very little at this season. It looked hopeless and desolate, the long straight lines of fences, and the gray, empty space between running off into nothing. Anything moving upon it would have been a relief to the eye and the mind; it looked like Rotha's own life at present, unchanging, Monotonous, solitary, barren, endless. Yet very precious flowers had been lately blossoming upon her path, and fragrant plants springing; but this, if she partly knew, at this moment she wholly ignored or forgot. She stood in a dream reverie, looking forward with her bodily eye, but with the eye of her mind back, and far back; to her mother, to her father, to Mr. Digby, and the times at Medwayville when she was a happy child. Nothing regular or consecutive; a maze of dream images in which she lost herself, and under the power of which her tears slowly gathered and began to run down her cheeks. Standing so, looking down the long empty road, and in the very depths of disheartened foreboding and dismay, a step startled her. Nobody was in sight on the road towards Tanfield; it was a quick business step coming in the other direction. Rotha turned her head hurriedly, and then was more in a maze than ever, though of a different kind. Close by the gate somebody was standing. A stranger? And why did he look so little strange? Rotha's eyes grew big unconsciously, while she likewise utterly forgot that they were framed in a setting of wet eyelashes; and then there came flashing changes in her face. I cannot describe how all the lines of it altered; and fire leapt to her eye, not without an alternating shadow however, a sort of shadow of doubt; her lips parted, but she could not bring out a word. The stranger stood still likewise, and looked, and I am not sure but his eyes opened a little; light came into them too, and a smile.
"Have I found you?" he said. "Perhaps you will let me come in."
And while Rotha remained in stupid bewilderment and uncertainty of everything except the identity of the person before her, he laid hold of the latch of the gate and made his own words good; Rotha giving way just enough to allow of it. I think the new-comer was a little uncertain as well; nevertheless he was not the sort of man to shew uncertainty.
"Is this my little Rotha?" he said as he came up to her; and then, taking her hand, he began just where he left off, by stooping and kissing her. That roused Rotha, as much as ever the kiss of the prince in the fairy tale woke the sleeping beauty. The blood flushed all over her face, she pulled her hand away, and flung herself as it were upon the gate again; laying hold of the bars of it and bending down her face upon her arms. What did he do that for? and had he a right? After leaving her unthought of for so many years, was he entitled to speak to her and look at her and—kiss her, just as he could do once when she was a child? Rotha's mind was in terrible tumult, for notwithstanding this protest of reason, or of feeling, that touch of his lips upon her lips had waked up all the old past; it was just like the kiss with which he had bid her good bye three years ago; but whether to forgive him or not, and whether there was anything or not, Rotha did not yet know. Yet the old power of his presence was asserting itself already. All she could do was to keep silent, and the silence was of some little duration; for Mr. Digby, as his old fashion was, waited.
"I see you have not forgotten me," he said at length. "Or—should I say—"
"I thought youhadforgottenme, Mr. Southwode," said Rotha. She said it with some dignity, removing her arms from the gate and standing before him. Yet she could not raise her eyes to him. Her manner was entirely unexceptionable and graceful.
"What made you think that?"
"I had some reason. It is three years, just three years, since you went away; and I have never heard a word from you in all the time."
"You have not heard from me? How comes that?"
"I do not know how it comes. I have never heard."
"And so, you thought I had never written?"
"Didyou write?" said Rotha, flashing the question now at him with her eyes. It was exactly one of the old looks, that he remembered, bright, deep, eager. Yet how the girl had changed!
"I wrote a number of times."
"To me?"
"Yea. I got no answer."
"How could I answer letters that I never had?" cried Rotha.
"Could you not, possibly, have written to me a letter that was not an answer?"
"Yes, and I would; O how I wanted to write, many a time!—but I did not know where to send it. I had not your address."
"I left it with your aunt for you; or rather, I believe I left it in a note for you, when I went away."
"She never let me know as much," said Rotha a little bitterly.
"You might have guessed she had my address. Did you ever ask her? You know, I promised to give it to you?"
"There was no use in my asking her any such thing,"' said Rotha. "She never let me hear a word from you or about you. I only learned by chance, as it were, that you had gone back to England."
"And so you thought I had forgotten you?"
"What could I think? I did not want to think that," said Rotha, feeling somewhat put in the wrong.
"I did not want you to think that. The least you can do to a friend, if you have got him, is to trust him."
"But then, I thought—they said—I thought, maybe, after you had put me in aunt Serena's care, you had done—or thought you had done—the best you could for me."
"The best I could just at the moment. I never promised to leave you withMrs. Busby always, did I?"
"But you were in England, and busy," said Rotha. "It seemed—No, itdidn'tseem very natural that you should forget all about me, for I did not think it was at all like you; but that was what people said."
"And Rotha believed?"
"I almost believed it at last," said Rotha, very sorry to confess the fact.
"What do you think now?"
"I think I was mistaken. But, Mr. Digby, three years is a long time; and after all, why should you remember me? I was nothing to you; only a child that you had been very kind to."
He was silent. What was she to him indeed? And what sort of relations was he to maintain between them now? She was not a child any longer. Here was a tall, graceful girl, albeit dressed in exceedingly plain garments; the garments could not hide and even rather emphasized the fact, for she was graceful in spite of them. And the promise of the child's face was abundantly fulfilled in the woman. Features very fine, eyes of changing and flashing power, all the indications that he well remembered of a nature passionate, tender, sensitive and strong; while there was also a certain veil of sweetness and patience over them all, which he did not remember. Mr. Southwode began dimly to perceive that he could not take up things just where he left them; what he left was not in existence. In place of the passionate, variable, wilful child, here was a developed, sensitive, and withal very beautiful woman. What was he to do with her? or what could he do for her?
Unconsciously, the two had begun slowly pacing towards the house, and Rotha was the one to break the silence. Happily, her companion's scruples did not enter her head.
"What brought you here, Mr. Digby? How ever came you to Tanfield?"
"To look after that little girl you thought I had forgotten," he said with a slight smile.
"But what made you comehere?Did you know I was here?"
"Not at all. I could not find out anything of your whereabouts; except indeed that you were 'in the country.' So much I learned."
"From whom?"
"From Mrs. Busby."
"From my aunt! You have seen her! When did you see her?"
"Yesterday; immediately upon my arrival."
"Then you have only just come? From England, I mean."
"Only just come."
Rotha paused. This statement was delightfully soothing.
"And you saw aunt Serena? And what did she say?"
"She said nothing. I could get nothing out of her, of what I wanted to hear. She said you were quite well, making a visit at a friend's house in the country."
"That—is—not—true!" said Rotha slowly and indignantly. "Did she tell you that?"
"Are you not making a visit here?"
"What is a 'visit'? No, I am not. And, it is not a friend's house, either."
"How came you here? and when? and what for, then?" said he now in his turn.
"I came—some time in last May; near the end, I believe."
"Why?"
Rotha lifted her eyes to his. "I do not know," she said.
"What was the alleged reason for your coming?"
"Aunt Serena was going, she said, to Chicago, on a visit, and my presence would not be convenient. I could not stay in the house in New York alone. So I was sent here. That is all I know."
"Sent?"
Rotha nodded. "Yes."
"Notbrought?"
"O no!"
"Did you comealone?"
A sudden spasm seemed to catch the girl's heart; she stopped and covered her face with her hands; and for a minute or two there came a rush of hot tears, irrepressible and unmanageable. Why they came Rotha did not know, and was surprised at them; but there was a quiver and a glitter in her face when she took her hands down, which shewed to her companion that the clouds and the sunshine were at strife somewhere. They walked on a few paces more, and then, coming full in sight of the house, Rotha's steps stayed.
"Where are we going?" she said. "I have no place to take you to, in there."
Mr. Digby's eyes made a survey of the building before him.
"O it is large enough—there is room, and rooms, enough," said Rotha; "but it is all unused and unopened. I have one corner, at the top of the house; and down in another corner Mr. and Mrs. Purcell have their kitchen and a little sleeping place off it; all the rest is desert."
"Who are Mr. and Mrs. Purcell?"
"Aunt Serena's tenants—farmers—I do not know what to call them. They might be servants, but they are not that exactly."
"Do you mean that there is no other person in the house?"
"No other person."
Mr. Southwode began to go forward again, slowly, looking at everything as he went.
"What do you hear from your aunt?"
"Nothing. O yes, I have had one scrap of a note from her; some time ago; but it told me nothing:"
"Have you written to her?"
"Over and over; till I was tired."
"Have you written to no one else?"
"Why of course! I wrote to Mrs. Mowbray, again and again; and to one or two of the girls; but I never got an answer. The whole world has seemed dead, and been dead, for me."
They slowly paced by the house, and began to go down the sweep towards the other gate.
"Alone with these two servants for five months!" Mr. Southwode said."Rotha, what sort of a life have you been living all this while?"
"I do not know," said the girl catching her breath. "Rather queer. I suppose it has been good for me."
"What makes you suppose that?"
"I think I can feel that it has."—But Rotha added no more.
"Is confidence between us not fully reestablished?" he asked with a smile.
"O yes—if you care to know," Rotha answered hesitatingly, at the same time finding herself ready to slide back into the old habit of being very open with him.
"I care to know—if you like to tell me."
"It has been a queer life," she repeated. "I have been living between two things, my Bible, and the garden. There was an interval of some weeks not long ago, when Mrs. Purcell was sick; and then I lived largely in the kitchen."
"Go on, and tell me—But how can you go on!" Mr. Southwode found himself approaching the gate and road again, and suddenly broke off. "I cannot keep you standing here by the hour, and a little time will not do for us. Pray, if you have no place to take me to, where do you yourself live?"
The laughing glance that came to him now was precisely another of the child's looks that he remembered; a look that recognized his sympathy, and answered it out of a fund of heart treasure.
"I live between my corner at the top of the house, and Mrs. Purcell's corner at the bottom. I have no place but my room and her kitchen."
"Where can I see you? We have a great deal to talk about. Rotha, suppose you go for a drive with me?"
Rotha's eyes sparkled. "It would not be the first time," she said.
"No. Then the next question is, when can we go?" He looked at his watch.
"It is too late for this afternoon," Rotha opined.
"I am afraid it is. I do not think we can manage it. Then—Rotha, will you be ready to-morrow morning? How early can you be ready?"
"We have breakfast about half past six."
"We?"
"Yes," said Rotha half laughing. "We. That is, Mr. Purcell, and his wife, and myself."
"Do you take your meals with these people?"
Rotha nodded. "And in their kitchen. It is the only place."
"But they are not—What are they?"
"Not what you would call refined persons," said Rotha, while again the laugh of amusement and pleasure in her eyes shone through an iris of sudden tears. "No—they have been kind to me, though, in their way."
"As kind as their allegiance to Mrs. Busby permitted," said Mr. Southwode drily, recognizing at the same time the full beauty of this look I have tried to describe. "Well! That is over. How early to-morrow will you be ready to come away?"
"To come away?" repeated Rotha. "For a drive, you mean?"
"For a drive from this place. It is not my purpose ever to bring you back again."
The colour darted vividly into Rotha's cheeks, and a corresponding flash came to her eye. Yet she stood still and silent, while the colour went and came. Never here again? Then whither? and under what guardianship? His own? There came a great heart leap of joy at this suggestion, but with it came also a vague pull-back of doubt; the origin of which probably lay in words she had heard long ago and never forgotten, the tendency of which was to throw scruples in the way of such an arrangement or to cast some slur upon it. Was there an echo of them in Rotha's young consciousness? She did feel that she was a child no longer; that there was a difference since the old time. Yet she was still as simple, nearly, as a child; and of that sort of truth in her own heart which readily believes truth in others. Mr. Digby's truth she knew. Altogether there was a confusion of thoughts within her, which he saw, though he did not read.
"Do you owe anything to these people here?" he asked, a sudden question rising in his mind.
"Owe? To Mr. Purcell and his wife? No. I owe them for a good deal of kindness. O! you mean—Yes, in one sense I owe them. I have never paid them anything."
"For your board, and their care of you?"
"No.—I do not owe them for muchcare," said Rotha smiling. "I have taken care of myself since I have been here."
"Do I understand you? Has nobody paid them anything for your stay here?"
"Nobody."
"Upon what footing were you here, then?"
"It has no name," said Rotha contentedly. She could be gay now over this anomalous past. "I do not know what to call it."
"Has your aunt allowed you to depend upon these people?"
"Yes. I have not really depended upon them, Mr. Southwode. I promised myself, and I promised Mrs. Purcell, that some day, if I ever could do it, I would live to pay her. If I could have got any work to do, I would have taken it, and paid her before now; but I had no chance. I could see nobody."
"How literally is that to be taken?"
"With absolute literalness. I have seen nobody but Mr. and Mrs. Purcell since I came here. Began almost to think I never should."
"But Sundays?"
"What of Sundays?"
"Did you not go to church somewhere?"
"Yes," said Rotha smiling; "in my pleasant corner room at the top of the house. Nowhere else."
"Why not?"
"It is not the habit of the people. And their habit, I found, I could not change."
"What did you do with your Sundays?"
"Spent them alone with my Bible. And often they were very, very pleasant; though I found it difficult to keep up such study all alone, through the long days."
"I must not let you stand here any longer! Will you be ready for me at eleven o'clock to-morrow?"
"Yes. There is no difficulty in that."
"Then I will be here at eleven. Good bye!"
He gave her his hand, looked at her a little steadily, but Rotha could not tell what he was thinking of; then as he let go her hand he lifted his hat and turned away.
A flush of colour came over Rotha's face, and she was glad to turn too; to hide it. Walking up to the house, she tried to think what Mr. Southwode meant by that last gesture. She was half pleased, and half not pleased. It was the manner of a gentleman to a stranger; she was no stranger. But it was also the manner of a gentleman towards a lady. Did he recognize her then for one? for a grown-up woman? a child no longer? and was he going to take on distance in his behaviour to her? She did not like the idea. That thought however, and all thoughts, soon merged in a feeling of exceeding joy. In the surprise and strangeness of the first meeting, Rotha had hardly had time to know how she felt; no Aurora Borealis is more splendid than the rosy rays of light which began now to stream up into her sky. She knew and began to realize that she was overwhelmingly happy. There were questions unsolved and not easy to solve; there were uncertainties and perplexities in her future; she half discerned that; but she could not give attention to it, in the present she was so exceedingly glad. And she need not; for did not Mr. Digby always know what to do with perplexities? She belonged to him again, and he, not her aunt any more, had the disposal of her; it was the old time come back. She was no longer alone and forlorn; no longer divided from her best friend; what of very hard or very evil could come to her now?