CHAPTER VI.LETTERS.

“‘Dora Freeman, West Lawn.’

“I did not see Peter again until long after dinner, and then I asked if he had done my errand.

“‘Yes, miss,’ he replied. ‘She was much obliged. She’s a nice woman.’

“‘Peter, don’t those verbenas need sheltering from the hot sun?’ Mr. Randall called out, his manner indicating that by volunteering information respecting Mrs. David West, Peter was getting too familiar.

“Mr. Randall is very proud, and so is Mattie, but in a different way. If she knew how much I wish to see Mrs. West, or at least learn something of her, she would never rest until the wish was gratified. We took a walk after tea to the village cemetery, of which the people are justly proud, for it is a most beautiful spot, divesting the dark, still grave of half its terrors. There are some splendid monuments there, one costing I dare not tell how much. It was reared to the memory of General Morris, for whom the town was named, but this did not impress me one half so much as a solitary grave standing apart from all the others and enclosed by a slender iron fence. The grass in the little yard was fresh and green, and there were many roses growing there. The stone was a plain slab of Italian marble, with only these words upon it:

“‘Anna, aged 20.’

“Even Mattie was interested, and we leaned a long time on the gate, speculating upon the Anna sleeping at ourfeet. Who was she, and whose the hand of love which had been so often busy there? She was young, only twenty when she died. Had many years been joined to the past since she was laid to rest? Was she beautiful, and good, and pure? Yes, she was all that, I fancied, and I even dared to pluck a rose-bud whose parent stalk had taken root near the foot of the grave. I can see it now in the glass of water where I put it after returning home. That rose and that grave have interested me strangely, painfully I may say, as if the Anna whom they represented were destined to cross my path, if ever the dead can rise up a barrier between the living.

“June 15th.

“A steady summer rain has kept us in-doors all day, but I have enjoyed the quiet so much. It seems as if I never should get rested, and I am surprised to find how tired I am, and how selfish I am growing. I was wicked enough to be sorry when in the afternoon Bell Verner came, bringing her crocheting and settling herself for a visit. She is very sociable, and asks numberless questions about Beechwood and its inhabitants. I wonder why I told her of everybody but Dr. West, for I did, but of him I could not talk, and did not.

“Saturday, June 16th.

“A long letter from Johnnie, and so like him, that I cannot find it in my heart to scold him on paper for hisdreadful language. I will talk to him on my return, and tell him he must be more choice of words and must make an effort to learn to spell, though I believe it is natural to the Russells to spell badly. I can see just how they miss me at home, and I cried over the letter till I was almost sick. I am sure they want me there, and I wonder what they would say if they knew how the Randalls, and Verners, and Strykers are plotting to keep me here until September, Mattie and Bell saying they will then go with me to Beechwood. Just think of those two fine ladies at our house. To be sure, it is quite as expensively furnished as either Mattie’s or Bell Verner’s, and we keep as many servants; but the children, the confusion! What would they do? No, I must not stay, though I should enjoy it vastly. I like Bell Verner, as I know her better. There is a depth of character about her for which I did not at first give her credit. One trait, however, annoys me excessively. She wants to get married, and makes no secret of it either. She’s old enough, too,—twenty-eight, as she told me of her own accord, just as she is given to telling everything about herself. Secretly, I think she would suit Dr. West, only she might feel above him, she is so exclusive. I wonder Margaret should tell him that story about Lieutenant Reed, and I am glad Johnnie set him right. I would not have Lieutenant Reed for the diamonds of India, and yet he is a great, good-natured, vain fellow, who is coming here by and by. Ithink I’ll turn him over to Bell, though I can fancy how her black eyes would flash upon him.

“I have had a note from Mrs. David West, inviting me to come and see her, and this is the way it reads:

“‘My Dear Miss Freeman:

“‘I am much obliged for the trouble you took in bringing me that package, and did I go out at all, except to church, I would thank you in person. If you can, will you come and see me before you return to Beechwood? I should like to talk with you about the Doctor. Any one interested in him has a sure claim upon my friendship.

“‘Yours respectfully,“‘Helen West.

“‘Yours respectfully,

“‘Helen West.

“‘Grove Street, No. 30.’

“Nothing can be more ladylike than the handwriting, and, indeed, the whole thing. Mrs. David West may be poor and unknown, but she is every whit as refined and cultivated as either Mattie or Bell. I shall see her, too, before I leave Morrisville; but why does she take it for granted that I am interested in Dr. West? I am not, except as a good physician; and what is she to him? Here I am puzzling my brain and wasting the gas, when I ought to be in bed; so with one look at that rose, which I have been foolish enough to press,—the rose from Anna’s grave,—I’ll bid the world good-night.”

CHAPTER VI.LETTERS.

“My dear Richard:

“Your package of money and little note, sent by Miss Dora Freeman, was brought to me with a line from the young lady by Mr. Randall’s colored servant Peter. I know you could not afford to send me so much, and I wish you had kept a part for yourself. Surely, if the commandment with promise means anything,—and we know it does,—you, my son, will be blessed for your kindness to your widowed mother, as well as your unselfish devotion to those who have been, one the innocent, the other the guilty, cause of so much suffering. God reward my boy—my only boy as I sometimes fear. Surely if Robert were living he would have sent us word ere this. I have given him up, asking God to pardon his sin, which was great.

“And so the debt is paid at last! Dear Richard, when I read that I shed tears of gratitude and thanksgiving that you were free from a load you never should haveborne. It was a large sum for you to earn and pay in less than seven years, besides supporting me and Robin. He grows dearer to me every day, and yet I seldom look at him without a great choking sob rising to my throat. He is like his mother, and I loved her as if she had been my daughter. O Anna, lost darling, was she as pure and sinless when she died as when she crept into my arms and whispered of her newly found hope in Him who can keep us all from sin? God only knows. Alas! that her end should be wrapt in so dark a mystery; and ten times alas! that any one should be malignant enough to blame you, who had well-nigh died when the trouble fell upon us.

“And so you fear you are more interested in this Dora than you ought to be, or rather that she is far too good for you.

“She must be very, very good, if my boy be not worthy of her.

“Yes, the Randalls are very grand, fashionable people, as you may know from the fact that the Verners and Strykers took them up at once. I don’t know what influence they may have over Dora; not a bad one, I hope. I think I saw her the other night riding by on horseback, in company with Bell Verner. It was too dark to see her distinctly, but I heard Miss Verner say, in reply evidently to some remark, ‘I never trouble myself to know or inquire after any one out of our set,’ and then theygalloped on rapidly. As I am not in Miss Verner’s ‘set’ she will not probably bring Dora to see me, but I have obviated that difficulty by writing her a note and inviting her to call on me. Did I do right? I am anxious to see her, for a mother can judge better than her son of what is in woman.

“Yours affectionately,“Helen West.”

“Yours affectionately,

“Helen West.”

“By the way, did you know that Mr. Randall was the purchaser of West Lawn, our old home?

“H. W.”

“Dear Mother:—Your letters do me so much good, and make me strong to bear, though really I have perhaps as little to trouble me as do most men of my years. If the mystery concerning poor Anna were made clear,—if we were sure that she was safe with the good Shepherd, and if we knew that Robert, whether dead or alive, had repented of his sin, I should be very happy.

“There’sDora, I know,—a continuous trouble, but one with which I would not willingly dispense. You ask if you did right to invite her to call. You seldom do wrong; but in this case, O mother, I have become a perfect coward since Dora left me. I thought I wanted her to know all that we know of Anna and Robin; but now the very possibility of her hearing the little you cantell, and then giving it the natural construction which she might, makes the cold sweat ooze out in drops upon my face. If she comes, tell her as little as possible. It gives me a thrill of satisfaction to know that she is at West Lawn, enjoying the roses I planted. Dear West Lawn! but for that terrible misfortune which prompted us to sell it, you might have belonged to Miss Bell Verner’s set. But don’t tell Dora. I’d rather she should like me for myself, and not for what I used to be.” * * * *

* * * * “I do think you might come home, instead of asking to stay longer. It’s right shabby in you to leave me so long, when you know how much I suffer. The children behave dreadfully, and even John has acted real cross, as if he thought all ailed me was nervousness. You cannot love me, Dora, as much as I do you, and I think it’s downright ungrateful after all I’ve done for you since father died. If you care for me at all, you’ll come in just one week from to-day. I have about decided to go to Saratoga, and want you to go with me. Be sure and come.”

“Dear Mrs. Russell:—Excuse the liberty I am taking, but really if you and your husband knew howmuch Dora has improved since leaving home, and how much she really needs rest, you would not insist on her coming home so soon. Husband and I and Bell Verner all think it too bad, and I for one veto her leaving us.”

“Mrs. Russell.—Madam:—Both myself and Mrs. Randall are exceedingly loth to part with our young guest, whom rest is benefiting so much. You will do us and her a great favor to let her remain, and I may add I think it your duty so to do.”

Squire John nervously fumbling his watch-chain, looking very hot and distressed; Johnnie all swollen up, looking like a little volcano ready to explode; Mrs. Russell crying over Mr. and Mrs. Randall’s letters, wondering what business it was of theirs tomeddleand talk, just as if she did not do her duty by Dora. Who, she’d like to know, had supported Dora these dozen years, sending her to school, taking her to Newport, and buying her such nice dresses? It was right mean in Dora, and she would not stand it. Dora should come home, and John should write that very day to tell her so, unless he liked Dora better than he did her, as she presumed he did—yes, she knew he did.

“Thunderation, mother, why shouldn’t he like Auntie best?” and with this outburst, Johnnie plunged heart and soul into the contest. “Who, I’d like to know, makes the house decent as a fellow likes to have it,—a married old chap, I mean, like father. ’Tain’t you. It’sAuntie, and so the whole co-boozle of servants say. You ask ’em. Talk about what you’ve done for Dora these dozen years, taking her to Newport, and all that! I thinkI’d dry upon that strain and tell what she’d done for me. Hasn’t there been a baby about every other week since she lived here, and hasn’t Auntie had the whole care of the brats? And at Newport how was it? I never told before, but I will now. I heard two nice gentlemen talking over what a pretty girl Miss Freeman was, and how mean and selfish it was in her sister to make such a littleniggerof her. They didn’t saynigger, but that’s what they meant. Dora ain’t coming home, no how. You can go to Saratoga without her. Take Clem, and Daisy, and Tish, and Jim. You know they act the best of the lot. Leave me and Burt and Ben at home. I’ll see to them, and we shall get on well enough.”

By this time Margaret was in hysterics, to think a son of hers should abuse her so, with his father standing by and never once trying to stop him. Possibly some such idea crept through Squire John’s brain, for, putting into his voice as much sternness as he was capable of doing, he said, “My boy, I’m astonished that you should usesuch shocking words asthunderation,co-boozle,dry up, and the like. Your Aunt Dora would be greatly distressed; but, Madge,” turning to his sobbing wife and trying to wind his arm around her waist, “Johnnie is right, on the whole; his plan is a good one. We’ll take Clem, and Rosa, too, if you like, leaving Johnnie, Ben, and Burt at home, and Dora shall stay where she is. She was tired when she went away, and very pale. You are not selfish, Madge; you’ll let her stay. I’ll write so now,—shall I?” and there was a sound very much like a very large, hearty kiss, while a moment after Johnnie, in the kitchen, was turning a round of somersaults, striking his heels in the fat sides of the cook, and tripping up little Burt in his delight at the victory achieved for Dora.

“July 7th.

“Dear Auntie:—The house is still as a mouse, and seems so funny. The old folks, with Tish, Jim, Daisy, Clem, and Rosa, have cut stick for Saratoga, leaving me with Ben and Burt. You orto have seen me pitch into mother about your staying. I give it to her good, and twitted about your being a drudge. I meant it all then, but now that she is gone, I’ll be—I guess I’ll skip the hard words, and say that every time I rem’ber what I said to her, there’s a thumpin’ great lump comesin my throat, and I wish I hadn’t said it. I’ve begun six letters to tell her I am sorry, and she only been gone two days, but I’ve tore ’em all up, and now when you see her you tell her I’m sorry,—’cause I am, and I keep thinkin of when I was a little shaver in petty-coats, how she sometimes took me in her lap and said I was a preshus little hunny, the joy of her life. She says I’m thepestof it now, and she never kisses me no more, nor lets me kiss her ’cause she says I slawber and wet her face, and muss her hair and dress. But she’s mother, and I wish I hadn’t sed them nasty things to her and maid her cry.

“Dr. West was here just now, and wanted to borrow a book, but when he found it was yourn he wouldn’t take it; he said he’d write and ask permission.

“We get on nice, only cook has spanked Ben once and Burt twice. I told her if she did it agen I’d spank her, and so I will. I think I’ve got her under, so she knows I’m man of the house. The old cat has weened her kittens. Burt shut one of ’em up in the meal chest, and the white-fased cow has come in, which means she’s got a calph.”

“Yours,“Johnnie.”

“Yours,

“Johnnie.”

No. 7.Dr. West’s letter, on which he spent three hours, wasting half a dozen sheets of note-paper, and which when finished did not please him at all.

“Miss Freeman:—You probably do not expect me to write to you, and will be surprised at receiving this letter. The fact is I want permission to go to that little library, which, until this morning, I did not know was yours. There are some books I would like to read, but will not do so without leave from the owner.

“I hear you are enjoying your visit, and I am glad, althoughImiss you very much. Of course you know your brother and sister are at Saratoga, and that Johnnie is keeping house, as he says. If you have not time to answer this to me, please say to Johnnie whether I can read the books or not.

“Yours truly,“Richard West.”

“Yours truly,

“Richard West.”

“Dr. West.—Dear Sir:—You really were over-nice about the books, and I should feel like scolding were it not that your fastidiousness procured me a letter which I did not expect from you. Certainly, you may take any book you like.

“And so you miss me? I wonder if that is true. I should not think you would. I’m not worth missing. I hope you will see Johnnie as often as possible.

“Yours respectfully,“Dora.

“Yours respectfully,

“Dora.

“P. S.—I am going to-morrow to see Mrs. David West.”

CHAPTER VII.DORA’S DIARY CONTINUED.

“It is a long time since I wrote a word in this book; I have been so happy and so busy withal; visits, rides, picnics, and everything. I did not know that life was so bright and pleasant as I have found it here in Morrisville, where everybody seems trying to entertain me. Mattie’s brother Charlie is here, but he behaves like a man; does not annoy me one bit, but flirts shockingly withBell Verner, who flirts as hard in return. He teasingly asked me one day aboutDr. West, and when Bell inquired who he was, he said he was ‘a country doctor of little pills; a sort of lackadaisical chap, who read service very loud, and almost touched the pew railing when he bowed in the Apostles’ Creed.’

“I grew so very angry defending Dr. West that Bell honestly believes I care for him, and kindly stops Lieutenant Reed when he begins his fun. I like Bell Verner more and more, only she is too proud. How I cried over that letter from Margaret telling me to come home, and how I tried not to have Mr. and Mrs. Randall answer it; but they did, and there came back such a nice response fromJohn. What a dear, unselfish man he is, and how smooth he made it look,—so smooth that I really felt as if doing him a favor by staying until Johnnie’s letter was received, and I guessed at once the storm through which they had passed.

“Will I ever forget the day I received a letter fromDr. West? I could scarcely credit my own eyes, yet there was his name, Richard West, looking so natural. I felt the blood tingling in my veins, even though he merely wrote to ask me if he might read my books, the foolish man! Of course he might. He says he misses me, and this I think is why the letter is worth so much, and why I answered it. Perhaps it was foolish to do so, but I can’t help it now. It is not at all likely he’ll write again though I find myself fancying how I shall feel, and what he would say in a second letter. Bell Verner knows he wrote, for I told her, but pretended I did not care. To-morrow I am going at last to see Mrs. David West.

“July 15th.—I have seen Mrs. David West; have looked into her eyes, so like the doctor’s; have heard her voice; have seen the child; and oh! whyamI so wretched, and why, when I came back, did I tear up that rose from Anna’s grave and throw it to the winds? I hate this room. I cannot bear it, for Anna used to occupy it; she haunts me continually. She died in this room.Richard kissed her here, and here that child was born. Oh, what am I to think except what I do? Andyet it is all suspicion, based on what a gossiping woman told me. I wish she had never come here. I would rather have cooked the dinner myself than have heard what I have.

“It was arranged that Mattie should go with me to see this Mrs. David West, and I thought of little else all the morning; but when dinner came Mattie had been seized with one of her violent headaches, and it was impossible for her even to sit up. Knowing how much I had anticipated the call, and not wishing to have me disappointed, she insisted that I should go without her, Peter acting as my escort there, while the new cook, a Mrs. Felton, who, it seems, had business on that street, would call for me on her way home. This was the arrangement, and at about four o’clock I started. I had in some way received the impression that Mrs. David West lived on Elm Street, and when we passed that point I asked Peter if we were right.

“‘Yes, miss, Grove Street,—just there a ways in the neatest little cottage you ever set eyes on, I reckon.’

“Involuntarily I thought of the woman and child seen that first evening of my arrival at Morrisville, and something told me I was going straight to that cottage with its roses, its vines, and bay-windows. The surmise was correct. I knew the house in an instant, and had there been a doubt it would have been dispelled by the widow’s cap and the little child out on the grass-plat, just wherethey were that other summer day so like this and yet so unlike it, for then I never guessed how sharp a pang I should be suffering now.

“‘There she is. That’s Mrs. West with Robin,’ Peter said, and the next moment I was speaking to Mrs. David West, and before she said to me, ‘You know my son,’ I felt sure she was the doctor’s mother.

“The same fine cast of feature, the same kind, honest expression beaming in the dark eye, and the same curve of the upper lip,—said by some to be always indicative of high breeding. The mother and son were very much alike, except that she as a female was noticeable for a softer style of beauty. I never saw one to whom the widow’s cap was so becoming. It seemed peculiarly adapted to her sad, sweet face and the silken bands of grayish hair, which it did not conceal. There was also in her manner and speech a refinement which even Bell Verner might have imitated with advantage. My heart went out to her at once, and by the time I was seated in the rustic chair, for I preferred remaining in the yard, I felt as much at ease as if I had known her all my life.

“‘This is Robin,’ she said, turning to the child, who I now discovered was a cripple in its feet, and unable to walk. ‘Did Richard ever tell you of Robin?’

“There was a hesitancy now in her voice, as if she knew Richard had never told me of him, and doubted her own integrity in asking the question.

“‘No,’ I replied, ‘the doctor never told me of Robin, nor yet of himself.’

“‘Richard is very reticent,’ she answered; and then as she saw my glance constantly directed to Robin, she evidently tried to keep me from talking of him by asking numberless questions about Richard, and by telling me what a good, kind child he was to her.

“It is true I did not suspect her then of such a motive, but I can see now how she headed me off from the dangerous ground on which I leaped at last, for I could not resist the expression of that child’s face, and breaking away from what she was telling me of Richard, I knelt by his chair, and kissing his round cheek, asked:

“‘Whose boy are you?’

“‘Papa Richard’s and grandma’s,’ he replied, and then there flashed upon me the thought that in spite of his deep blue eyes and soft golden curls he was like Dr. West. For an instant I was conscious of a sharp, stinging pain, as I said to myself, ‘Was Dr. West ever married?’ Surely he would have told of that,—would at some time have mentioned his wife, and with the pain there came the knowledge that I did care more for Dr. West than I had supposed; that I was jealous of the dead woman, the mother of this child. Mrs. West must have divined a part of my thoughts, for she said half laughingly, like one under restraint:

“‘He has always called my son “Papa Richard,” as heis the only father the child ever knew,’ and a shadow flitted across her face as she directed my attention to a tall heliotrope near by. But I was not to be evaded; curiosity was aroused, and replying to her remark concerning the heliotrope, I turned again to Robin, whose little hand I now held in mine, and said, ‘He is your grandchild?’

“Suddenly the dark eyes looked afar off as if appealing to something or somebody for help; then they softened and tears were visible in them.

“‘Poor little Robin, he has been a source of great sorrow as well as of comfort to me, Miss Freeman,’ and Mrs. West’s delicate hand smoothed and unwound the golden curls clustering around Robin’s head. ‘So I used to unwind her curls,’ she continued abstractedly. ‘Robin’s mother. I must show you her picture when we go in. She was very beautiful, more so than any one I ever knew, and Richard thinks the same.’

“Again that keen pain, as of a sharp knife gliding through my flesh, passed over me, but I listened breathlessly, while still caressing the child she continued:

“‘His mother was my adopted daughter: I never had one of my own. Two sons have been born to me; one I have lost,’—and her breath came gaspingly like speaking of the dead,—‘the other you know is Richard. To all intents and purposes Anna was my daughter, and I am sure no mother ever loved her own offspring more than Idid Anna. O Anna darling, Anna darling! I never dreamed, when I took her to my bosom, that she could—O Anna!’ and Mrs. West’s voice broke down in a storm of sobs.

“After this I could not ask her any more questions, and in a kind of maze I followed her into the house, which was a perfect little gem, and showed marks of most exquisite taste. Some of the furniture struck me as rather too heavy and expensive for that cottage, but I gave it but little thought, so interested was I in what I had heard and seen.

“‘That isAnna,’ Mrs. West said, pointing to a small portrait hanging upon the wall just where the western sunbeams were falling upon it and lighting it up with a wonderful halo of beauty.

“Instantly I forgot all else in my surprise that anything so perfectly beautiful could ever have belonged to a human being, and with a scream of delight I stood before the picture, exclaiming, ‘It is not possible that this is natural!’

‘It is said to be,’ Mrs. West rejoined, ‘though there is a look in her eye which I did not notice until a few months before she died. She was crazy at the last.’

“‘Crazy!’ I repeated, now gazing with a feeling of pity upon the lovely face, which seemed imbued with life.

“I cannot describe that face, and I will not attempt it, for after I had told of the dark blue eyes and curls ofgolden hair, of the pure white skin and full ripe lips, you, my journal, would not have the least idea of the face, for the sweet, heavenly expression which made it what it was can never be described on paper. The artist had put it on canvas, so at least said Mrs. David West, and I believed her, drinking in its rare loveliness and repeating again, ‘Crazy—poor Anna! Was it for long?’

“‘No, not long; she died when Robin was born.’

“‘And her husband; he must have been heart-broken,’ I ventured to say next, but if Mrs. West heard me, she made no reply, and with my thoughts in a tumult, I continued looking at the portrait until, suddenly remembering the grave which had so interested me, I asked, ‘How old was Anna when she died?’

“‘Just twenty,’ was the reply; while I rejoined, ‘I am sure then I have seen her grave. It says upon the stone, “Anna, aged 20.”’

“‘Yes, that’s all Richard would have on the marble. It almost killed Richard, but God has healed the wound just as He will heal all hearts which go to Him.’

“I don’t know why I said what I did next, unless it were that I should have died if I had not. The words were wrung from me almost against my will:

“‘Was Richard Anna’s husband?’

“‘No, no, oh no, Richard was not her husband!’ Mrs. West replied, quickly.

“Heretofore she had answered my queries concerning Anna with hesitancy, but the ‘No, no, oh no, Richard was not her husband,’ was spoken eagerly, decidedly, as if it were a fact she would particularly impress upon my mind. Then, as I stood looking at her expectantly, she went on, but this time in the old, cautious manner:

“‘I never knew who Anna’s husband was. It is a sad story, which I would gladly forget, but Robin’s presence keeps it in my mind,’ and bowing her head over the child, the poor woman wept passionately.

“‘Poor grandma, don’t cry. I love you! What makes grandma cry over me so much, and look so sorry at me? Is it because I am a little lame boy?’

“This Robin said to me, while he tried to brush away the tears of her he called grandmother. He had not talked much before, but what he said now went through my heart, and kissing his forehead, I whispered:

“‘People sometimes cry for joy.’

“‘But she don’t,’ he said, nodding toward Mrs. West, who left us alone while she bathed her face and eyes. ‘She looks so sorry, and says, “Poor Robin,” so often. I guess it’s because my feet will never walk, that she says that. I should cry too, but Papa Richard talked to me so good, and said God made me lame; that up in heaven there were no little cripples; that if I loved the Saviour, and didn’t fret about my feet, I’d go up there some day; and since then I’ve tried hard not to mind,and ever so many times a day I say softly to myself, “Will Jesus help Robin not to fret because he’s a poor lame boy, of no use to anybody.” I say it way in my mouth, but God hears just the same.’

“I could not answer for my weeping, but kneeling beside the lame boy, I wound my arms around his neck, and laid his curly head upon my bosom, just as I would have done had it been Johnnie, Ben, or Bertie thus afflicted.

“‘Seems like you was most my mother,’ he said, caressing my cheek with his soft little hand. ‘You don’t look like her much, only I dreamed once she came to me and loved me, as you do, and kissed my twisted feet, oh! so many times. It was a beautiful dream, and next day I told it to grandma, and asked her if she wasn’t sure my mother was in heaven! She did not answer until I said again, “Is she in heaven?” Then she said, “I hope so, Robin;” but I wanted to know sure, and kept on asking, until she burst out with the loudest cry I ever heard her or anybody cry, and said, “God knows, my little Robin. He will take care of her. I hope she’s there!” but she wouldn’t say for sure, just as she did when the minister and Mrs. Terry’s baby died. Why not? Why didn’t she? Lady, you look good. You look as if you prayed. Do you pray?’

“‘Yes,’ I answered, wondering if he would call my careless words a prayer.

“‘Then lady,’ and the deep eyes of blue looked eagerly, wistfully at me, ‘then tell me true, is my mother in heaven, sure?’

“What could I do,—I who knew nothing to warrant a different conclusion,—what could I do but answer, ‘Yes.’ He believed me, the trustful, innocent child, clapping his hands for joy, while the picture on the wall, wholly wrapped in the summer sunshine, seemed one gleam of heavenly glory, as if the mother herself confirmed the answer given to her boy. He did not doubt me in the least, neither did I doubt myself; Anna was safe, whatever her sin might have been; whether the wife of one husband or six, like the woman of Samaria, she surely was forgiven.

“Mrs. West had now returned, her face as calm and placid as ever, and her voice as low and sweet.

“‘You have had a sad call, I fear,’ she said. ‘Richard would not like it if he knew how I had entertained you, but I’ll promise to do better next time, though I cannot talk of Anna. Some day perhaps, you may know all, but I would rather it should be Richard who tells you.’

“She kept associating me with Richard, and though the association was not distasteful, it puzzled me somewhat, making me wonder if he had ever told her much of me.

“At that moment Mattie’s new cook, Mrs. Felton, appeared, curtseying with a great deal of humility to Mrs. West, who did not seem especially pleased to meether. Still she greeted her kindly, and suffered her to caress Robin, whom she called a ‘precious lamb,’ a ‘poor, little, stunted rosy,’ and numerous other extravagant names.

“‘I’m back to the old place,’ she said to Mrs. West, when through with Robin, ‘but my, such a change! ’Tain’t much such times as when you were there, I tell you. Then we had a head; now we’ve none.’

“Mrs. West stopped her at this point by asking me to come again, and saying she did not know Mrs. Randall or she would call on me.

“‘You might make the first advance,’ I said. ‘You have surely lived here longer than Mrs. Randall.’

“‘Yes, I know,’ and her pale face flushed up to her soft grey hair. ‘But times have changed with me. I do not go out at all.’

“‘Come again,’ Robin said, as I turned towards him; ‘come again, lady; I likes you, cause you seem some like Papa Richard.’

“It grated harshly to hear the child say Papa Richard, and involuntarily I asked, ‘Why he did not say Uncle Richard? He is not your father,’ I added, while the child’s eyes grew big with wonder, as he replied:

“‘Then where is my father, I’d like to know?’

“Mrs. Felton laughed a hateful, meaning laugh, and said:

“‘Come, Miss Freeman, it’s time we were going.’

“With another good-by for Robin I shook Mrs. West’s proffered hand, and was soon out in the street with Mrs. Felton, who, when we were at a safe distance from the house, remarked in a very disagreeable tone:

“‘The cutest thing you ever did was to tell that child not to call the doctor papa. I’d have broke him of it long before this. It don’t sound well, ’specially after all’s been said about Mr. Richard and Miss Anna.’

“I wouldn’t question her, neither was there a necessity for it, as she was bent on talking, and of the Wests, too.

“‘I s’pose you know the doctor and his mother used to own West Lawn?’ was the next remark, which brought to my mind the conversation between her and Mrs. West.

“‘Used to own West Lawn!’ I repeated, surprised out of my cool reserve.

“‘To be sure they did; but, for some unaccountable reason which nobody ever knew, they sold it about the time Anna died, and bought the place where they live now. Of course when a person jumps right out of a good nest with their eyes wide open, nobody but themselves is to blame for where they land. Mrs. West held her head as high as the next one, drove her carriage, and used solid silver every day, and now its all gone. I lived with her as chamber-maid for a whole year. I was Sarah Pellet then.’

“I was too much interested to stop her, and suffered her to go on.

“‘I loved Miss Anna, even if she did turn out bad. She was the sweetest-tempered, prettiest-wayed girl you ever seen, and when they took her to the hospital I felt as bad as if she’d died.’

“‘To the hospital? The lunatic asylum? Did she go there?’ I asked; and Sarah Felton replied:

“‘Oh yes; they hoped ’twould cure her. Seems’s if the trouble all come to once. First, there was Robert, Richard’s twin, who went off, or was murdered, and has never been heard of since.’

“‘Richard’s twin brother ran off? When? How long ago? How long before Anna died, I mean?’ I asked, stopping suddenly as a new light dawned upon me, only, alas! to fade into darkness at the answer.

“‘Oh, better than a year. Yes, a full year; for he’d been gone a good spell before it was known to many. He didn’t live here; ’twas in New York, and he hardly ever come home. He was a wild one, not much like Richard, who was engaged to Anna, and that’s what I can’t make out,—why he didn’t marry her.’

“We were crossing a common now, where there were rustic benches beneath the trees; and feeling that unless I stopped I should fall, I was so faint and sick with what I had heard, I said that I was tired; and seating myself upon a bench, loosened my hat-strings and leaned against a tree, listening, while my loquacious companion continued:

“‘He was engaged for years, so I’ve heard, and I know he thought a sight of her. It was fairly sickish to see ’em together, he with his arm round her and she a lettin’ her head, with them long curls, loll on his shoulder. They was to be married the very day she died. ’Twas an awful sight. I went away from them about the time they sent her to the hospital; but I was back a spell, as the chamber-maid was took sick, and so I was in it all. Dr. Richard kissed her when she was dyin’, and she whispered something in his ear.’

“‘But Robin,’ I gasped; ‘Anna was surely married to somebody.’

“Again the smile I had seen before and hated curled her lip as she answered:

“‘Yes, of course she was married, for she was a very pious girl, runnin’ Sunday-schools, belongin’ to the church, tendin’ to the poor, and all that.’

“I knew that woman did not believe in Anna’s piety, but I did, and the belief gave me comfort as I gazed up into the clear blue sky and said to myself, ‘She is there.’

“Dimly I began to perceive why Mrs. West could not tell Robin that his mother was in heaven sure; but I was glad I had done so, without reasoning in the least upon the matter. I exonerated Anna, and only wrote bitter things against poor Richard, saying to the woman, ‘And Richard kissed her when she was dying?’

“‘Yes, up there where you sleep. That was Anna’s room, where she died, and where Robin was born. I didn’t see it, but them that told me did. Richard fell as flat as if struck with lightning when he came up from the office and heard what had happened, and six hours after, when they said she was dyin’ and had asked for him, he had to be carried, he was so limpsy and weak. She never noticed the child an atom, or acted as if there was one, but would whisper, ‘Forgive,—I can’t tell,—I promised not. It’s all right,—all right.’ What she meant nobody knows, for she died just that way, with Richard’s arm around her, and the doctor a-holdin’ him, for he was whiter than a rag, and after she was dead he went into a ravin’ fever, which lasted for weeks and weeks, till the allopaths give him up. Then the homœopaths come in and cured him, and that’s why he turned into a sugar-pill doctor. He was one of the blisterin’ and jollup kind before his sickness, but after that he changed, and they do say he’s mighty skilful. As soon as he got well they sold West Lawn, and Mrs. West has never seemed like the same woman since. Folks thinks they’s poor, though what’s become of the property nobody knows. Anyways the doctor supports his mother, sendin’ her money every now and agen.’

“‘But why,’ I asked, ‘did Mrs. Randall and Bell Verner never hear of all this?’

“‘Easy enough,’ was the reply. ‘Judge Verner onlymoved here last fall, and Mr. Randall last spring. West Lawn has changed hands three times since the doctor owned it; so it’s natural that his name shouldn’t appear in the sale. Then, it’s seven years since it all happened, and a gossiping place like Morrisville, where there are upwards of three thousand folks, don’t harp on one string forever; only them that was interested, like me, remembers.’

“This was true in detail, and was a good reason why neither Bell nor Mattie had ever heard of Anna West, I thought, as I dragged my steps homeward, hardly knowing when I reached there, and feeling glad that Mattie was still confined to her bed, as this left me free to repair at once to my own room,—Anna’s room,—where she died, with her head on Richard’s arm, and he so weak that he had to be supported. Poor Richard! I do pity him, knowing now why he so often seems sad. But what was it? How is it, and what makes my brain whirl so fast? Anna said with her dying breath that it was all right, and I believe her. I will not cast at her a stone. She is in heaven sure; yes, Robin, sure. And Richard fell as if smitten with lightning when he heard of it! That betokened innocence on his part. Then why this horrid feeling? Is it sorrow that he cared for and loved her? I don’t know; everything seems so far off that I cannot find it. What is the record? Let me see.

“Richard once lived here in this grand house; he hasmet with reverses, nobody knows what; he has a brother somewhere, nobody knows where; he supports his mother, and this accounts for what I termed his stinginess. How I hate myself, and how noble Dr. West would appear were it not for,—for,—I cannot say it,—the horrible possibility, and I,—I guess,—I think,—I am very sure I did care for him more than I supposed.

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