Front matter (continued 5)

But Silas was not to be thus set aside.

"Don't think of such a thing," he commanded. "Just get right in." He reached out to grasp her arm and detain her from her purpose, but just as he touched the sleeve of her coat his arm was grasped from behind, and a skilful thrust of Daniel Butterworth's long arm sent him spinning backward into a big snowbank.

When Silas Dobson arose, disconcerted and spluttering, from the snow-bank, Dawn had vanished, whisked around the wood-pile in a jiffy by Daniel, lifted for an instant in his strong arms, carried across a broad expanse of unbroken snow, and tucked neatly into the sleigh among the girls and boys.

The whole sleigh-load had divined Dan's purpose, and they kept silent until she was safe among them, and Dan in the front seat had gathered up his reins again. Then they gave a united shout which rang through the moonlit air and struck sharply on the ears of the disconcerted Silas as he climbed hastily into his lone sleigh and turned his horse's head in the opposite direction.

The next time Silas Dobson came to visit the school he stayed after hours and said he wished to talk with the teacher.

With lowering brow, Daniel lingered in the back of the room, phenomenally busy with his books. Dawn cast a frightened look around, and her eyes rested on him with appeal. His eyes seemed to give back comfortable assurance of help as he sat down with a thump and began to figure vigorously at a sum he had not finished in the arithmetic class. Silas eyed his youthful enemy, and finally requested that he be sent home, as he wished to have a little private conversation.

"Oh!" laughed Dawn, loud enough for Daniel to hear. "Daniel has to stay to-night to finish his sums. It would not do for me to let him go. I might lose my school if I did not act fairly, you know."

Daniel figured away vigorously, putting down any numerals that entered his head. There was a warm feeling around his heart. It was as exhilarating as scoring a point in a ball-game. He was apparently deaf to what was going on about him, and frowned over his sum in feigned perplexity.

"Sit down, Mr. Dobson," went on Dawn, summoning all her dignity. "We can talk with entire freedom here. Daniel is busy and will not notice." She spoke in a low, distant tone, and seated herself at the desk.

"I'm one of the principal selectman," frowned Dobson, as he sat down at her bidding. "You needn't be afraid to send him home."

"It isn't in the least necessary," said Dawn, thankful to Daniel from the depths of her heart for his presence.

Silas Dobson lowered his voice and, drawing gradually nearer to the teacher, launched into a flowery paragraph which he had prepared and rehearsed before his mirror. It contained phases about Miss Montgomery's starry eyes, raven locks, pearly teeth, and rosy cheeks, and was calculated to convey his admiration in a delicate editorial manner. Noting the drooping eyelashes, and deepened color of the girl before him, he proceeded from this preamble to make her understand that his interest in the school had not been altogether for the school's sake, and that he was offering her honorable attentions, which, if all went well, would mean a proposal of marriage later.

If he could have seen the steel flash under the drooping eyelashes, he would not have gone on to impress her with the value of such an offer, nor told its advantages in half so complacent a tone.

As usual, Dawn had control of herself in this unpleasant crisis, and while his words filled her with dismay and repulsion her tone was cool, low, deliberate:

"I have no doubt you mean to be kind, Mr. Dobson——" she began.

"Not at all, not at all, it is my pleasure and my will," he interrupted effusively.

"But," she went on, ignoring his interruption, "I have no desire for attention from any one, and will have to ask you to excuse me from accepting it."

He looked at her in astonishment, and thought she must be coquetting; but his most earnest solicitations failed to get anything further from her than the fact that she would rather not receive his attentions.

"Do you know," he asked angrily, "that I am a man of importance in this town? I have influence enough with the selectmen to take this school away from you if I choose. Take care how you treat me!"

"I suppose there are schools in other places, then," answered Dawn coolly, looking him in the eye now, though she felt every fibre of her being in a tremor.

"Are you aware, Miss Montgomery, that I am an editor, and that a very slight word from my pen would go abroad through the land and ruin your reputation so that you could not get any school anywhere?"

"I cannot see why you should want to do such an unkind thing as that, after what you have said about liking me, but if you do, you need not stop on my account. I can find something else to do. I certainly could never have anything more to do with a man that threatened such things."

"I did not say I would do any such thing, Miss Montgomery," began Silas, eager now to retract his angry words. "I was merely trying to show you what risks you were taking in talking to me as you did. I mean well by you, and I think you ought to appreciate it. If I were to offer these attentions to any other girl in the village, she would feel flattered."

"Daniel"—Dawn's voice rang clear and without a trace of the excitement she was under—"if you need help with those sums now, I can give it. Bring them up here, please."

Daniel lost no time in getting to his feet and gathering up his scattered papers, but the selectman arose in protest and put out his hand toward the teacher.

"Don't call that boy up here yet," he commanded, and dared to lay his hand upon the girl's arm as he did so, bringing his smug countenance quite near, that he might speak so the approaching boy would not hear.

But the words on his lips were never uttered. Without an instant's hesitation, Dawn sprang away from him, crying, "Don't you dare to touch me, sir!" and with catlike agility Daniel glided up the aisle and struck the selectman full in the face. Silas reeled backward off the platform, and staggered ignominiously against the wall, clutching at the blackboard rail for support, his hat rolling at his feet, and his general appearance undignified, to say the least. Daniel stood in a combative attitude, looking at him contemptuously. He would have enjoyed nothing better than to give Silas Dobson a good thrashing.

"You shall answer for this, you young rascal," threatened Silas, shaking his fist at Daniel, as he recovered his balance and began to brush the chalk dust from his best coat. "This is the second offense, remember!"

Silas was no match for Daniel in a fight, and he knew it.

"All right," said Daniel, unconcerned. "We'll see who does the answering, but don't you dare touch Teacher again, d'ye hear?"

"I shall have a talk with Mr. Butterworth, who is also a selectman, and with the minister," said Dawn, with dignity. "If they wish me to give up the school, I will do so, and thus save you the trouble of doing what you have threatened, Mr. Dobson."

"You make a great mistake, Miss Montgomery," said Silas, thoroughly alarmed now. "I have no desire to have you give up the school."

"Well, I guess you better not have," said Daniel threateningly—"not unless you want a good coat of tar and feathers." There was a look of wrath in the boy's blue eyes that boded no good for the discomfited selectman.

"You have not understood me," repeated Silas lamely, glaring with helpless anger at Daniel, and then casting a wistful appeal at the teacher.

But Dawn had taken up the arithmetic, and was figuring rapidly. She only raised her head to say coldly, "Good afternoon, Mr. Dobson. You will do me a favor if you won't come to visit the school any more. You hinder my work, and I do not like it." Then she turned to Daniel and began to explain the sum.

"You have not understood me," murmured Silas again.

"I guess you've been understood all right," said Daniel grimly over his shoulder.

With a last angry glare at Dawn's protector, and a threat he would never dare to carry out, Silas Dobson took himself off the scene of action.

The next week there appeared a prominent editorial about the public school and its brilliant young teacher, who was doing so much for the youth of the village, and should be encouraged in every way by the parents.

Daniel read it to a group of the boys in the school yard, and then cut it out with his penknife and pinned it to the blackboard, as an expression of the sentiments of the whole school.

After that little episode, there was a closer bond than ever between Daniel and his teacher. They never talked it over, nor even mentioned it, except that Dawn, as Silas's footsteps died away that afternoon, had put her little hand on the boy's rough one for just an instant, and said:

"Thank you so much, Daniel. I do not know what I should have done if you had not stayed."

Daniel had turned away with a sudden feeling as if he was going to choke, while the blood in his heart pounded up into his face. But aloud he only said in a bashful tone:

"Aw, that's nothin'. He needs a good lickin', an' I'd like to be the one to give it to him."

Afterward, Dawn wondered that she had dared to speak as she had to Silas Dobson, a selectman, and the editor of the paper. And if she had it in her to do so now, how was it that she had allowed Harrington Winthrop to lead her on to a hated marriage, when she might have easily stopped it by being decided? Had her brief months of independence given her courage? It seemed strange to her now that she had been so afraid to tell her father what she felt about it until matters had gone so far that it was almost impossible to stop it. Her heart burned within her sometimes to go back and tell Harrington Winthrop just what she felt about him. She had been weak, she decided, terribly weak, in yielding in the beginning to her desire for a home of her own, and for freedom from any possibility of having to stay in the house with her father's wife. Yet, were not all women weak and helpless sometimes, when it came to a testing of their strength against men? Her mother had not been able to cope with her father's will. It was all a mixed-up world, and full of trouble. She turned on her scanty corn-husk pillow and wished for the dawn of a day that would have no sorrow.

Just why it was that her experience with Silas Dobson made the thought of Charles and her marriage so much more vivid than before, Dawn could not understand, and she thought about it a great deal in the watches of the night, when she should have been sleeping. A new phase of her position was forced upon her: she was in a measure deceiving other people about herself. Silas Dobson, disagreeable as he was, had no idea that his attentions were an insult to her because she was already married. Of course she could refuse to accept attentions from any one, but if Silas Dobson had been a pleasant and agreeable man, it might have been difficult to explain to him without telling him the truth why she could not ride nor walk with him. It was all a terrible problem, and night after night she cried herself to sleep.

Sometimes she stayed in unpleasant quarters, where she had perhaps to climb a ladder, and share the loft above the lean-to kitchen with two of the small children of the family. Often the cracks would be so wide that the snow would blow in, drift across her bed, and even blow into her face. Then as she dropped off to sleep, lulled by the roar of the wind outside, she would wish that the snow might come softly and cover her out of sight, that she might sleep forever.

At other times, the thought of Charles brought a great longing to see him, and to hear his voice whisper, "My darling," once more, as he had that night when they stood for one blissful moment together in their room, before Betty called them. Then Dawn would go over all the happenings of the evening: the scene at the supper table, and every syllable that Madam Winthrop had uttered, up to the awful moment when the mother had hurled her accusations, and the truth had burst upon the young bride's heart in all its nakedness: that she was married out of generosity! Bitterness toward this woman was changing slowly into understanding. How was the mother to blame for what she had said? It was all true, except that she, Dawn, had not known it, and was therefore not to blame.

Then she began to wonder how it was that she could have been so deceived. She could not blame her mother-in-law for doubting her word, for would not she also doubt that a girl could be married to a man and think he was some other? Whose fault had it been? Not Charles's, for he had fully vindicated himself. She would sooner doubt herself than him. Could her father have known about it? Could he have wished her to be married to one whom she did not know, without even telling her? It was believable that he might have thought it of little importance to her, if he, her father, willed it so; yet while often treating her as if she were a chattel, without will of her own, he had ever been perfectly frank with her. She felt that he would have informed her of the change of bridegrooms, and not merely carried out his wishes without announcing it to her. She could scarcely believe he could think it would not matter to her. But after careful thought she was inclined to lay the deception at her stepmother's door, and she was not long in fathoming the true reason for it. Mrs. Van Rensselaer knew her unhappy state of mind, and probably feared that Dawn would rebel against being married. To have her remain at home was the worst possible thing that could happen to her step-mother, Dawn knew, for from childhood she had been hated by the woman who had taken her outraged mother's place. It was all quite plain—all but one thing: how had Harrington Winthrop been turned aside from his purpose of marrying her? Had he done it of himself, or had her father found out something about him that he did not like, or had Charles managed it for her? And where was Harrington? Would she ever meet him again? The thought took such hold upon her that it visited her in dreams and made her cry out in alarm as she sought to hide from his pursuing phantom.

After her experience with Silas Dobson, Daniel was ever vigilant, attending her to and from school, albeit seldom alone with her. He seemed to be entirely willing that his favorite followers should share his privileges of her company; and often there were several tiny girls, or older ones, in the triumphal procession going to and from the red school-house, taking "teacher" home. Daniel showed himself a gentle giant toward the little ones, too, picking them up when they fell down, wiping off the mud, and carrying them if they were tired. Dawn saw him daily growing more manly and kindly, and she felt proud of him. Perhaps, some day, he might become something like Charles, though never quite so cultured, for he lacked the refined home training. But she realized more and more that he was a good boy and a great comfort to her. As for herself, she felt years older than he, and far beyond him in experience. She never dreamed how it was with him toward her. If she had, she might have given up in despair, and cried out that there was nothing good for her in the world.

So Daniel continued to guard her, and to watch the movements of Silas Dobson as a cat watches a mouse. If Silas had wished, he would have had no opportunity to repeat his troublesome attentions, for whenever he found himself in the neighborhood of where the teacher happened to be boarding, he was likely to notice Daniel in the immediate foreground.

So the long winter went pleasantly by. There were husking bees, quiltings, singing-school, and Lyceum nights. Dawn became a prominent participant at all. In singing-school, no voice was so clear as hers, and she could take the high notes to the envy of every other soprano in the village. At the Lyceum her readings were more popular than any others.

In spite of her frequent loneliness, and her feeling of being cast off by all who should naturally protect her—though it was her own fault, of course, that she had run away, and she blamed no one—Dawn had never been quite so happy in her life. Her hours were pleasantly employed, she had friends who admired her, and she might do as she pleased. It opened a wide and interesting life before her. If only there had not been that ache as of something lost, that memory of her one beautiful day of love, which remained as a haunting vision, she would have felt herself blest beyond most girls. But all the time there was that sense of something wrong, that could not be set right; of a great mistake that might not ever be mended.

And then, one morning when a hint of spring was in the air, and the snow was all gone save lingering patches in dark corners and in shady hollows, and the sunshine was making everybody feel glad, she came face to face with Harrington Winthrop!

CHAPTER XXI

It was in front of the Golden Swan that she met Harrington. He was just coming down the steps, and must have arrived the night before.

He stopped suddenly, with the look in his eyes like a cat's when she spies a bird and, crouching, steals slowly nearer.

Dawn paused for just an instant, too, in wild dismay, having the instinct to flee, yet realizing that she must not, because the whole town would think it strange. She wished to have the power to pass him unrecognized, yet with sudden sinking of soul she knew that she had not. His eye had met hers with recognition, and she must hold her position courageously. She wished she knew all the circumstances of his giving her up, and it flashed across her that she must not let him know that she was ignorant of them. He must have no advantage, for his strange power over her might crush her in spite of herself. Something tightened round her heart and gripped it like a vise as his cold calculating glance looked her over, and a cruel satisfaction settled about his hateful mouth.

Dawn gave a sort of gasp and started on, summoning all the spirit with which she had vanquished Silas Dobson, and wondering why she could not be as haughty and as brave now. The sight of Daniel's butter-nut clad shoulders in the distance, waiting at the corner with a group of other boys, gave her courage, but her face was white, and she felt her limbs trembling beneath her.

But Harrington Winthrop did not intend to let her slip through his fingers thus easily, now that he had found her, apparently far from her natural guardians. He of course knew nothing of her marriage with his brother.

He hastened down the steps with effusive manner and smiling countenance, and extended his hand in a warm greeting—if anything he ever did could be said to be actually warm.

"I did not expect this pleasure," he said in an oily voice, and with an impressive glance intended to convey deep emotion.

She drew back from the hand he offered, and wished she could take her eyes from his hateful ones, but she could not.

"Poor child!" he murmured in mock pity. "They have told you terrible untruths about me, and you have suffered and find it hard to forgive. But, indeed, it was none of my fault. I will explain the whole matter, and we can still evade the enemies who are trying to part us, and be happy together."

Dawn shuddered!

"Where can we go that we shall not be interrupted? Suppose we walk in the woods?"

Dawn was filled with terror. She looked about wildly, and saw to her relief that Daniel, with his special bodyguard in the rear, was sauntering slowly toward her. His attitude of protection gave her courage. He was watching the stranger with a curious suspicion. Had his intuition told him that she needed help? Daniel was but a few steps away.

She drew her breath in quickly, and spoke in a clear voice:

"I have no time to talk with any one at present. I am on my way to school, and shall be busy until late in the afternoon. I am a teacher."

She drew herself up with dignity, and he realized that she was not the simple child he had seen last, but a woman with an independence of her own.

"Dismiss your school," he said in the voice he was used to having obeyed. "I cannot possibly wait until this afternoon. I must talk with you at once. I don't intend to let you slip through my fingers so easily, now that I have found you, my pretty lady." He smiled, but there was a sinister menace in his voice.

"It is impossible to dismiss school," said Dawn decidedly. "I should lose my position if I did a thing like that. Besides, I do not wish to talk with you. There is nothing to talk about."

"There is everything to talk about," said the man, a fierce light coming into his eyes. "They have told you lies about me, and taken you away from me, but I mean to have you in spite of them. I will explain to you all about that poor woman. She was never my wife at all. Come, let the school take care of itself. You will have no further need of it. You belong to me, and I will take care of you. Come with me!"

The last word was a command, and with it he took hold of her shoulder almost roughly and attempted to turn her round.

At once there was a low growl behind his heels, and Daniel Butterworth's dog took hold of the calf of his leg as if he too would say, "Come with me!"

Harrington promptly let go of Dawn, who took advantage of her freedom and fairly flew down the street, leaving Daniel to settle up matters between his dog and the stranger, in whose frightened antics the boy was secretly taking deep delight. When Dawn had turned the corner and was out of sight, Dan called the dog off. Then Harrington Winthrop discovered that his lady had departed. Before that time he had been otherwise occupied.

Angry, baffled, and exhausted, he was in nowise attractive. An interested group of boys and one or two little girls who had torn themselves away from the teacher's side encircled him. Dan looked at him in quiet amusement, and then called his dog and betook himself to school. Most of the group followed him, with reluctant glances back at the dishevelled stranger. One little girl lingered, eying him wonderingly, and twisting her apron-strings.

"Where is your school-house, little girl?" asked Harrington sharply.

The child felt compelled to answer.

"Round that there corner over there, and down the road a good piece."

Harrington glanced after the boys and the dog uncertainly. Did the dog go to school also?

"Where does your teacher board?" he asked again.

"She's boardin' round, an' it's Ann Peabody's turn this week. She's got a boy what's blind in one eye."

"Ah! Indeed! That's a pity. Where does Ann Peabody live?"

"Next door but one to the church. The house with Johnny-jump-ups by the gate, an' a laylock bush by the stoop."

"Thank you. Now tell me what time your school lets out, that's a little lady."

"It don't let out till four o'clock—but it'll be took up 'fore I get there if I don't hurry."

She took to her heels forthwith, and Harrington Winthrop limped up the steps of the Golden Swan to repair damages and consider his next line of procedure.

When Dawn arrived at the school-house she was almost too frightened to stop. It was late, and most of the scholars were there. They trooped gladly in after her. She had made school for them a kind of all-day picnic, and they were eager to begin it. Even after she had hung up her bonnet and cape, and opened the high lid of her desk, her heart was beating like a trip-hammer. Now and then she looked apprehensively toward the door, and was reassured when at last she saw Daniel saunter in with a comfortable smile on his face, while the dog took up his station on the door-step. Rags often came to school. It was a part of his privilege to guard the teacher, and he felt he had earned a morning session by his gallantry in defending her against the rude stranger who had dared to lay hands upon her. He sat down comfortably just inside the school-room door, his forepaws hanging over the step, but he kept his head erect. With his nose on his paws and one eye closed, not once during the morning did he relax. He felt that there was further trouble to be expected, and he must be ready.

Dawn smiled, albeit with trembling lips, and set about the morning's routine; but her mind was troubled, and she kept starting and glancing uneasily toward the door. Daniel saw this, and grew grave with apprehension. What had the stranger to do with the teacher, and why did she seem to be so uneasy? Had he some power over her? She certainly did not look happy when he had laid his hand upon her arm, just before he, Dan, had given that low signal to Rags. She couldn't have liked the stranger to be there, or she would not have run away when she got the chance.

At recess she made Daniel happy by calling him to the desk and in a low tone thanking him for helping her. She did not explain further than to say that the man was an old acquaintance whom she did not like. Daniel understood him to be in the same class with Silas Dobson.

During the morning session of school Dawn's mind was in a whirl, trying to think what she should do. She dreaded the coming of the afternoon, when school would close, and she must go back to Mrs. Peabody's house. Winthrop would certainly search her out. It had been a great mistake to let him know she was the school-teacher, for though he did not know her assumed name he could easily find her now. She dreaded any encounter with him. A frenzy of fear had taken possession of her.

As the morning went on, she tried to make some plan for escape. No longer was it safe in this vicinity. She must get away and hide from him. Where? Could she ever hope to evade a man who spent his entire time travelling over the earth? He had the assurance of the devil himself, and it was almost hopeless to try to get beyond his grasp. Nevertheless, she must go.

The reading class which recited just before the noon-hour stumbled on its way for once without correction, while Dawn planned her next pitiful move.

At noon she sent one of the older girls to Mrs. Peabody's, to get her bag and a few little things that were lying about the room. She usually kept everything neatly packed in a large bag she had made—everything except her silk dress, which was hung on a nail. This the girl promised to fold nicely and put into the bag. She was to tell Mrs. Peabody that Dawn had decided to go a day before the time was up, and to thank the lady for all her kindness, and say Dawn was sorry she could not very well leave to explain it herself. The girl felt honored by the commission, and performed it to the letter, wishing the while that she knew where Teacher was going a day ahead of time, and resolving to ask her mother to invite the teacher to come to their house ahead of time, too.

Rags took up his station on the school-house steps again for the afternoon session, having been abundantly fed from the generous dinner-pails, on apple-pie, doughnuts, and chicken bones. Rags felt it in the air that something was going to happen, but nothing did, and four o'clock came at last.

Dawn had made the scholars write in their copy-books during the last hour of the afternoon. "Command you may your mind from play," straggled up and down a whole page in many of the books, while blots grew thick among the words, but no teacher wandered alertly up and down the aisles to watch and to correct; sometimes—oh, blessed honor!—to sit down and hold the quill pen, or, better still, take the dirty little fist of the writer into her own pink hand and guide the writing. The teacher sat behind a raised desk-lid, diligently writing, and took no heed of notes, or whittling, or even paper balls. Daniel Butterworth finally took Bug Higginson by the collar and stood him up behind the stove, but still the teacher wrote on.

It was a letter to the minister she was writing, and her young breast heaved with mingled emotions is she wrote. It was hard to have to leave this first school, where she had been so happy, and where she could still be so happy if she only had some one to protect her from the man who would probably haunt her through life. She had felt that she must make some brief explanation of her departure to the kind old man who had trusted her, and upon whom it would fall to explain her absence.

DEAR DR. MERCER [she wrote]:

You have been so very kind to me that it gives me much sorrow to tell you that I must go away. Something has happened that makes it necessary for me to go away at once. I cannot even wait to say good-by to you or any one else. I am so sorry, for I have been very happy here, and I have tried to do my best; and there is the singing-school this week, and the barn-raising where I promised to read them a story after supper, and my dear school! I love them all! Will you please tell everybody how sorry I am to go away like this? You have all been so good to me, and I shall never find a place I love so much as this, I am sure, but I truly cannot help going. If you knew all about it, you would understand. Please thank Mrs. Mercer for the pretty collar she gave me that belonged to your daughter, and tell her I will keep it always. I am sorry to leave you without a teacher, but there is almost a month's pay due me, and perhaps that will help you to get some one right away. So please forgive me for leaving the school just as it was when I got it. I love it, and wish I could stay.

Yours very gratefully,

MARY MONTGOMERY.

After folding, addressing, and sealing this letter, she closed her desk; then with sudden thought, as she caught Daniel's troubled eyes upon her, she opened it again and wrote hastily:

DEAR DANIEL:

I am having to go away in a great hurry. I cannot say good-by to anybody, but I must thank you for all you have done for me. I thank you more than words can ever tell. You cannot know how hard it is for me to go away from the school. Please study hard and try to be a good boy and then some day, when I hear of what a great man you are, I shall be so proud to have been your teacher. Go to college, Daniel, and be as great a man as you can, and don't forget that you have helped me very, very much ever since I came here.

YOUR GRATEFUL TEACHER.

Her hand trembled as she sealed this other note. She closed the desk hastily and glanced at the clock. It was one minute after closing time. Bug Higginson was decorating the stove with a caricature of one of the selectmen. It all looked so homely and familiar and dear, and she was to see it no more! The tears sprang to her eyes, and she could scarcely control her voice to dismiss the school. She shook her head and tried to smile when the girls asked if they might wait for her to walk home, telling them she must stay a little while, that she had something to do.

They all filed out save Daniel, who sat quietly in his seat, watching her with sad, puzzled eyes. Daniel had seen the glint of a tear as she looked at them.

"Aren't you going home to-night, Daniel?" she asked. She was dreading momentarily the approach of Harrington Winthrop. She seemed to know he would come to walk home with her. So did Rags, who sat very stiff and straight on the door-step, with bristling ears and eyes alert.

"Don't you want I should stay?" asked Daniel, and his eyes hinted that he understood she was in trouble.

"Oh, no, thank you, Daniel," she said, trying to make her voice sound cheery and natural, but somehow it broke into almost a sob.

Daniel eyed her curiously for a moment, and then got up slowly from his desk and went out. He gave Rags a look as he passed. The boy and the dog thoroughly understood each other. Rags did not stir. Daniel went down the path and out to the road; then down the road a few paces, after which he climbed the fence back into the school-yard. Then he walked over to a log behind the school-house and sat down where he could watch the road to the village.

As soon as he was gone, Dawn looked about her, caught her breath a moment, and seemed to bid good-by to all the childish forms that had but a few minutes before occupied the now empty benches. Then, spying Rags still sitting in the doorway, she took the note she had written to Daniel and, going over to the dog, tied it around his neck with a bit of string. Rags got up and wagged his tail, glancing eagerly at her, then back to the road again.

Dawn patted him lovingly.

"Take that note to Dan, Rags," she commanded.

Rags barked questioningly. He wanted to tell her that he had been ordered to stay with her, but she did not seem to understand. He wagged his tail harder, but he did not budge.

"Go, Rags, good dog. Take that to Dan." She pointed out the door.

Rags cast a protesting, anxious bark at her, a furtive glance down the empty road, and hustled out the door. He reasoned that Dan was near at hand and must settle the confliction of duties himself. He could not but obey the one whom he and his master alike worshipped.

The minute the dog had gone, Dawn put on her bonnet, caught up her cape and bag, and slipped out of the door and around the school-house on the side farthest from the village.

She fled through the back yard, crept under the lower rail of the fence, and proceeded over into the meadow where they had coasted all winter. In a moment more she was out of sight down the hill. She had but to cross the log which formed a bridge across the brook and she would enter the woods that lay at the foot of Wintergreen Hill. There she would be safe and could get away without seen by any one.

Daniel cut the string which held the note and sent the dog back to his post, while he slowly unfolded it and read, his hands trembling at the thought that she had written and sealed it, and that it was for him. A great tumult of emotions went through his big, immature heart as he tried to take it in. He had known something would happen, and was glad he had not gone away.

Rags hustled back to the school-house steps, but instantly he knew something was wrong. He looked into the empty room. She was not there. He smelled his way up to the desk, but could not bring her into existence. He snuffed his way out to the steps and down the path in a hurry, then came back baffled, with short, sharp, worried barks, to hunt for the scent again. Snuff! Snuff! Snuff! Bark! Rags could not understand it. Yes—but it was—there was the scent! Snuff! Snuff! Snuff! Bark! Bark! He tried it over again to make sure. The scent went around the left of the school-house, through the girl's play-ground. What could she have gone around there for at this time of day? Had the enemy come during his absence and stolen her away?

Rags hurried around the school, snuffing and barking, scuttled under the fence in a hurry, and away down the hill, his bark growing more sure and relieved every minute.

Daniel was not accustomed to receiving letters. He grasped the meaning of that first sentence slowly, having lingered long over the "Dear Daniel." But he got no further than the first sentence: "I am having to go away in a great hurry." He got to his feet rapidly and went around to the school-house door. A great fear was in his heart. The absence of Rags confirmed it. He entered the deserted school-room. No one was there. He stepped up to the teacher's desk. A letter addressed to the minister lay there. Daniel stood still by the teacher's desk, his heart filled with foreboding, and read the remainder of his own letter. As he finished, he heard a step outside the door, and, looking up, saw the stranger of the morning before him.

Instinctively he reached out for the minister's letter on the desk and put it with his own into his coat-pocket. Then he faced the intruder quietly, and something in his steady blue eyes reminded the man of his morning encounter with the dog. He felt that he had an enemy in the boy before him.

Winthrop took off his hat and inquired suavely:

"Is Miss Van Rensselaer here? This is the school-house, isn't it?"

"It's the school-house all right," answered Dan, "but there ain't no Miss Van Rensselaer round. Don't know no such person. You must 'a' ben told wrong."

"Oh, no; I saw her this morning. In fact, she must have expected me. I refer to the teacher of this school."

"The teacher's Miss Montgomery—Miss Mary Montgomery—an' she's gone. She boards this week with the Peabodys', up by the church, second house beyond. She hasn't been gone from here five minutes."

"That is very strange," said the visitor. "I just walked down past the church and did not meet her."

"She sometimes stops a minute to see how the blacksmith's little sick girl is, at the corner here. She might 'a' gone there, but she never stays long. You'd best go right up to Peabody's."

Daniel was anxious to get rid of the man, and he was certain that the teacher had not gone in the direction of the Peabodys', for he had watched the road every minute until he came around to the front of the school.

Harrington Winthrop took himself away, with a baffled look on his imperious face. As soon as he had passed from sight, Dan reconnoitred the school-yard.

There was no sign of anybody. He listened, but could not hear the dog. He gave a long, low whistle, and instantly from the distance, toward the woods, he heard a faint, sharp bark in answer. He whistled again, and again came the dog's response.

Daniel was over the fence in a second and down the hill, not whistling again until he reached the log across the brook. Then the dog's bark was nearer, but it ended suddenly, as if some one was holding his muzzle. The boy thought he understood, and bounded rapidly toward the place from which the sound seemed to have come. In a moment more he had plunged into the darkness of the woods.

CHAPTER XXII

Daniel found Dawn huddled at the foot of a tree, behind a thicket of laurel, with her bag beside her, and tears on her frightened face.

The dog had broken away from her and met him with a joyous bark, wagging his tail and running back and forth between them, his ragged, hairy body wriggling joyously; for had he not both of them here together, far away from intruding strangers? Why should not all be well now?

"Oh, Daniel!" said Dawn, in a voice that was almost a sob. "Why did you come after me?"

"I had to," said Dan, looking almost sullen. "I couldn't let you come off alone. Besides, you don't need to go. We won't let anybody hurt you. I can knock that fellow into the middle of next week if you say the word."

But the trouble was not lifted from her face.

"You are very good, and I thank you more than I can ever tell," she answered him; "but I must go away. He is a bad man, and he thinks he has some power over me. It would be of no use for you to knock him into next week, for he would be on hand again the next week to deal with. He would tell the minister and everybody that he had a right to take me away, and they would all believe him. He can make wrong things seem right to people. He has done it before. I'm afraid of him. I never expected to meet him here. There is nothing to do but get away where he can't find me. I must get away at once, or he may follow me. Will you please take Rags and go back now, and will you take a letter that I left in the school-house to the minister? I am so sorry to go this way, but it cannot be helped. I must get away from that man."

"Is he—has he any right?" began Daniel lamely and then burst out: "I mean, is he anything to you—any kind of relation, you know?"

"Nothing in the world, I'm thankful to say, and he never shall be as long as I live. But I never could feel safe again, now that he knows where I am."

Dan stood puzzled and troubled.

"Say, don't you know how you're going to make all the school feel bad if you go this way? The little ones'll wait for you to-morrow morning, and they'll go there to the school and you won't be there. We never had a teacher that made everybody like to study before. You oughtn't to go this way. You can't go!" He stopped, choking.

Dawn looked at him a moment, the tears gathering anew in her own eyes; then suddenly down went her head in her hands, and she cried as if her heart would break.

"Oh, Daniel," she said, "please don't! I don't want to go. I shall never be as happy again, I know, and you have been so good to me! But I must——"

The big boy went down on his knees beside her then, and put his rough hand reverently on hers.

"Don't," said he. "Don't. I've got to tell you something. Perhaps you won't like it—I don't know. I'm not near as good as you, and I don't know as much as you do, but I'll study hard, and go to college, and do anything else you say, just to please you. If you only won't go away. If you'll just stay here and let me take care of you! I love you, and I don't care who knows it! I've been feeling that way about you all winter, only I thought perhaps you'd like me better when I got more education; but now you see I've just got to tell you how it is. Don't you like me enough to stay and let me take care of you? I love you!"

But Dawn interrupted him with a moan.

"Oh, Daniel! You too? Then I haven't got anybody left. Not a friend in all the world!" She sobbed afresh. Daniel dropped down on the moss beside her in dismay. His heart grew heavy as lead within him, and the world suddenly looked blank.

"Yes, you have," he said. "I'll be your friend if you won't let me be anything else. I was afraid it would make you mad," he spoke hopelessly. "I ain't good enough fer you, I know, but I'm strong, an' I'd study hard and get an education, and I'll take wonderful care of you. You shouldn't ever have to work. You're a lady. That's why I like you. You're the prettiest thing that was ever made, an' I'd like nothing better'n to work hard for you all my life. But I might 'a' known you wouldn't think I was good enough." He broke off helplessly, and she saw that his broad chest was heaving painfully and that his usually smiling lips were quivering.

She put out her hand and laid it gently on his.

"Dear Daniel," she said, "listen! It isn't that at all."

He caught the cool little hand and pressed it against his eyes that were burning hot with boyish tears he was ashamed to shed. It was years since tears had been in those eyes. He had almost forgotten the smart of them. He had scorned the thought of them even in his babyhood, yet here, just when he longed to be a man, they came to make his shame complete.

"Listen, Dan," said Dawn earnestly. "It isn't that at all. You're good and dear enough for anybody, and I do love you, too, for you've been very good to me. I love you for yourself, too, but not in that way, Dan, for I love some one else. I loved him first and shall always love him, and—and—I belong to him. I couldn't belong to any one else, you know, after that. I'm sorry, Dan, so sorry you feel bad about it, but you see how it is. I belonged to some one else first."

"Is it him?" he blurted out fiercely.

"Oh, no, Dan! Oh, no! I'm very, very thankful it isn't that man. If it were, I should die. I couldn't love him. You wouldn't think I could!"

There was silence in the quiet woods for a moment.

"It ain't Sile Dobson?" he asked fearfully at last.

Dawn's laugh burst out softly then.

"Oh, Dan! You know better than that. You knew without asking. How could any one love him? No, Dan; the one I belong to is fine and grand and noble—everything he ought to be."

"Then, why doesn't he take care of you?" burst forth Dan indignantly. "I wouldn't let you teach school if you belonged to me, and I wouldn't let that fellow frighten you. He can't be all you say, or he'd take care of you."

Dawn's cheeks were very red.

"He doesn't know where I am," she said softly. "I went away because—well, it was for a good reason. It was for his sake. I had to go. Things had happened. I can't tell you about it, but it would have made him trouble if I had stayed."

Dan sat looking at her steadily, a great, wistful yearning in his eyes.

"I guess you're wrong 'bout that," he said thoughtfully. "I guess he'd rather have you an' the trouble, than to have no trouble without you. Leastways, I would, an' ef he don't love you that way, he ain't much account."

A troubled look came into Dawn's eyes. It was the first time she had questioned, from Charles's standpoint, the wisdom of her running way.

"It would have made a lot of trouble all around," she said, shaking her head doubtfully.

"Say, look here!" said Dan, sitting up suddenly. "You tell me where that fellow is, an' I'll go tell him all about you, and how that other fellow is worrying you, and how you need him to take care o' you; an' then if he don't seem to want to find you and look out for you, why, I won't tell him where you are. I'll come back and take care of you myself, any way. You needn't like me nor anything if you don't want to, but I ain't going to stand having you off running around the world, frightened of that fellow all the time, not if I have to chop him up myself. I tell you, I love you!"

Dan's blue eyes were flashing, and his cheeks were red with determination. He had let go of her hand as if it were a gracious favor she had bestowed upon him for the moment in his dire distress, and he had no right to keep it, but Dawn put it out again and laid it on his gently.

"Daniel, you are my dear friend for always, and I am glad to feel that you would take care of me if you could, but truly there is nothing you can do. I would not have you go to him for the world. He must not know where I am, nor be troubled ever by any thought of me. It was for that I came away. You would grieve me more than I can tell you if you did. I want him to forget me, because it could only make him trouble if he found me. He would have to come to me. He would want to come, I know, if you told him. But I don't want him to come. You don't understand, of course, and I mustn't tell you any more, only there is nothing can be done but for me to go away and find a place somewhere where no one can find me. Then people will forget, and I shall not bring any trouble or disgrace on him—though it wasn't at all my fault," she added. "I want you to know that, Daniel."

"Of course," growled Dan, looking down at the little hand on his as if it were an angel's and might be wafted away with a breath. "But I'm going with you myself, then, and see you to some safe place."

"Oh, but you mustn't, Dan. I couldn't let you. It wouldn't be right, you know. People would think it very strange."

"People needn't know anything about it. I don't need to talk to you. I can keep far enough away to see that no one hurts you, till you get a good, safe place."

"But, Dan, the folks at your home? They would think we had gone away together! I do not want them to think wrong of me, even if I'm not there to bear it."

Dan was baffled. He saw at once that it would not do. He must go back and bear the loneliness and the thought of her fighting her own battles.

"Well, I'll go with you now, any way," he said at last, with determination. "I'll see you safe to some coach somewhere, an' come back in the night. I can get to my room without Mother hearing me. She never worries about me now any more, an' don't stay awake to listen for me. She'll never know when I get in. I'll go back an' tell 'em I helped carry your bag across country to Cherry Valley coach, or somewhere. I've got the parson's letter here in my pocket. That villain came to the school-house after you, an' I picked up the letter so he wouldn't see it."

"Oh, did he come to the school after me? Then perhaps he has followed us. Dan, I must go quickly!"

"Come on," said Dan, as though he were proposing to walk to his death. At least, he was not to leave her yet. He picked up her bag, and helped her to her feet; then, still holding the hand by which he had helped her up, he bent over and kissed it reverently. Then he straightened up with a royal look of manhood in his eyes and turned to her:

"You won't mind that just once, will you? That hand did a whole lot fer me, beginning when it gave me that first licking."

Dawn smiled sadly. Then with sudden impulse she reached up, caught his face between her hands, drew it down to her own, and gently, seriously, kissed him upon the forehead as if it were a sacred rite.

"I love you, Dan," she said. "I'm so sorry it can't be the kind of love you want. But I'll be your dear friend always. I never had a brother. Perhaps I might call you my brother. It would be nice to have a brother like you. You have been very, very good to me, and I shall never forget it."

Dan looked at her as if she had laid a benediction upon him. After all, he was young, and it was much to have her friendship. And if another had her love, at least he, Daniel, was on the spot and might help her now, which went a great way toward making him feel better about the other fellow. The boy had begun to have a lurking pity for him, besides. And who was he, Daniel, that he should hope to hold a girl like this for himself? It was much that he had known her. It was right that she should have a lover such as she had described—"fine and grand and noble." Almost the great heart of the boy-lover felt he could take them both in and care for them, and bring them together, perhaps—who knew?

They hurried through the woods, the boy directing the way now, and she depending upon him. He decided that It would be well for her to take a certain stage line that could be reached only by a good walk of several miles across the country. He knew the way, and she was only too glad to have a guide.

That was Dan's great day of happiness. For years afterward he remembered every little incident. He seemed to know while it was all happening that it was a special gift granted him in view of the sorrow and sacrifice he must pass through. His was no passing love of a boy. He realized that the girl beside him was one in a thousand, and that it was enough for a lifetime just to have known her, and to be able to remember one such perfect afternoon as this.

To Dawn, it was given to understand her power for that brief season, and to use it to its utmost for the boy's good. She talked to him earnestly about himself and his future, and urged him to make the utmost of every opportunity. She made him understand that he had the gift of leading others, and that some day he might take a great stand in the world for some cause of Right against Wrong, when others would flock to his standard and let him lead them to victory. It was an unusual thing that a girl like Dawn should see his possibilities and point him to a great ambition, but Dawn was an unusual girl.

Some girls, even though they might have done no real wrong, would have taken advantage of the boy's confessed love, and have coquetted with him. Dawn treated him with the utmost gentleness, as if she understood the pain she must inflict, and would fain give him something fine to take the place of what he had lost.

When they came to a hill they took hold of hands and raced down. When they came to a brook he helped her gravely across, just as he had helped her ever since she came to teach the school. He said no more about his love. It was understood between them that it was a closed incident, to be put away in the sacred recesses of their hearts. Into the girl's face had come a tender, womanly interest that for the time being almost made up to the boy for the loss of her. It was while they were walking down a long stretch of brown road, straight into a glorious sunset, that the boy asked quite suddenly:

"Has he been to college?"

Dawn knew at once whom he meant, and began simply to tell all about Charles. It did her good to speak of him. It seemed to bring him nearer. Her face blossomed into sweetness as she talked. There was not much to say, not much about him that she could tell to a stranger, from her one brief day's acquaintance with her husband, yet she managed to say a good deal. Charles would have been amazed to hear her describe his high ambitions and noble thoughts. He did not dream how well the girl had read him during their one blissful day together. And now she was painting him as an ideal for the rude boy who walked beside her and listened, with his heart filled with patient envy; that presently lost its bitterness in pity for the other one, who might have her great love, yet might not walk beside her as he was doing.

At last Dan broke in upon her words:

"'Tisn't right he shouldn't know where you are. If he's anything like what you think he is, he's 'most crazy hunting you. I know how he feels."

Dawn shook her head sadly and told him he did not understand, but his words sank into her heart for future meditation, and she could not quite get away from the thought that perhaps she had been wrong, after all, in going away. Perhaps it might have been more heroic to stay and face the hard things right where she had been.

The long spring twilight had almost faded into darkness as they came at last to the inn where the coach would pass. Neither had spoken for some time. There was upon them a sense of their coming separation, and it depressed them. Already Dawn was looking into her lonely future, and dreading to lose this only friend she had. Already Dan was realizing what the going back was to be.

They had arranged it all. Dan was to take the letter to the minister, and explain that he had helped the teacher to catch a cross-country stage. He had taken it upon himself, also, to carry messages to the scholars and to her kind friends—brief messages of good-by, and haste, and sorrow; with the promise, too, at Dan's earnest solicitation, that if she ever could she would return to them.

Then at the end they had no time for parting. The stage was just driving up to the inn as they reached there. There was no time even for supper, though neither of them thought of it at the time.

Dan put her into the coach and arranged her bag comfortably, but he had to get out at once, as others were pressing in. He went outside in the dim light and stood by her window, looking up, trying to keep Rags from breaking away and getting into the coach. Something in his throat choked him. He could not speak.

The people were all in, and the driver was climbing to his place, when Dawn reached out her hand and caught Dan's, giving it a quick little squeeze.

"Dear Dan," she whispered as she leaned out, "don't forget to be the best you can."

He caught the little hand and laid his lips against it in the half-darkness. Rags had broken away and was barking wildly at the coach door, but the horses started and took Dawn away from the boy and the dog, and in a moment more they stood alone in the road, looking down the street at the dim black speck in the distance which was the coach.

Then slowly, silently, the one with downcast head, the other with drooping tail, Daniel and his dog took their way back over the road they had come so happily that afternoon. The dog could not understand, and now and then stopped, looked back, and whined, as if to say they ought to go back and do things over again. At last, when they reached the country roadside where all was still, and there were only the brooding stars to see, Dan sat down on a bank by the roadside, buried his face in his hands, and both down upon the cool, wet earth that was just beginning to spring into greenness. Then he gave way to his grief, while Rags, almost beside himself with distress, whined about him, snuffed up and down the road, and then sat down and howled at the late moon, which was just rising over a hill.

By and by Dan got up and called the dog. Together they started on their journey again, a silent, thoughtful pair. But never afterward did the boy Dan return. He was a man. He had suffered and grown. In his face were born resolve and determination. People wondered at the change in the careless, happy boy, and grew proud of his thoughtfulness.

CHAPTER XXIII

The night that Dawn left her husband's home marked the beginning of an era of sorrow in the history of the Winthrops.

The distracted young husband and his father rode all night long.

Charles reached the Van Rensselaers' home a little sooner than old Mr. Winthrop, who had further to go. The young man's white, drawn face startled Mrs. Van Rensselaer as he stood to greet her in the gloomy parlor, where the scent of the wedding roses still lingered.

She was in workaday attire, to set her house in order and prepare for what she hoped was to be a season of peace in her hitherto tempestuous life. Dawn was off her hands finally, she felt, and she had no serious forebodings concerning her share in the matter. The hard part had been to get the girl off without her finding out the trick that had been played on her. It had amazed the step-mother that her plan had worked so well. She had been prepared for the discovery to be made soon after the ceremony, but she had trusted to Dawn's fear of publicity, and Charles's evident infatuation, to hush the matter up. Mrs. Van Rensselaer had been reasonably sure that she could even keep it from her husband's knowledge, though she was prepared with a plausible story in case he remonstrated. His sense of pride would make him readily persuadable to almost any plan that would hide their mortification from curious friends. She had been sure that she could make him see that the whole thing had been done for his daughter's good. And now that the step-mother had succeeded even better than she had hoped, in getting the couple off on their wedding trip without either one discovering her duplicity, she had been at rest about the matter. Charles was enough in love to be able to make everything all right, and he would never blame her for having furthered his plans, even though not quite in the way he had arranged. Dawn could not fail to be pleased with the husband her step-mother had secured for her, and even would thank her in later life, perhaps, for having helped her to him.

And so Mrs. Van Rensselaer had gone placidly about the house, putting things to rights, and enjoying the prospect of a comfortable future without the fear of an unloved step-daughter's presence haunting her.

But when she saw Charles's face a pang of fear shot through her and left her trembling with apprehension. His voice sounded hollow and accusatory when he spoke:

"Is Dawn here, Mrs. Van Rensselaer?"

A thousand possibilities rushed through the woman's brain at once, and she felt herself brought suddenly before an awful judgment bar. What had she done? How had she dared? How swift was retribution! Not even one whole day of satisfaction, after all her trouble!

She tried to summon a natural voice, but it would not come. Her throat felt dry, and as if it did not belong to her, as she answered:

"Here? No. How could she be here? Didn't you take her away?"

The young man sat down suddenly in the nearest chair with a groan, and dropped his head into his hands. The woman stood silent, frightened, before him.

"Mrs. Van Rensselaer, what have you done? Why did you do it?"

"Well, really, what have I done?" The sharp voice of the woman returned to combat as soon as the accusation pricked her into anger. "I'm sure I helped you to get a wife you seemed to want bad enough and never would have got if I hadn't managed affairs. You haven't any idea how hard she was to manage or you'd understand. It was a very trying situation, and it isn't every woman could have made things go as well as I did—not to have a soul outside your family know there had been a change of bridegrooms. You see, none of our friends had ever seen your brother, and as the name was the same there were no explanations necessary."

"Mrs. Van Rensselaer, I would never have married Dawn against her will. It was not right for you to deceive her. She ought to have been told just how things stood, and what my brother had done."

"H'm! And had a pretty mess, with her crying and saying she wouldn't marry anybody, and all the wedding guests coming? Young man, you don't know what you're talking about. That girl isn't easy to manage, and I guess you've found it out already. She's like a flea: when you think you have her, she's somewhere else. I knew something desperate would have to be done before she ever settled down and accepted life as it had to be, and I did it, that's all. Well, what's the matter, any way? Have you got tired of your bargain already and turned her out of your house?"

Mrs. Van Rensselaer was exasperated and frightened. She scarcely knew what she was saying. Any moment her husband might come into the house. If she could only get the interview over before he came, and perhaps hide at least a part of the story from him! She dreaded his terrible temper. She had always had an innate presentiment that some time that temper would be let loose against her, and she knew now the moment was come.

Charles looked up with his handsome and usually kindly eyes blazing with amazement and indignation:

"Mrs. Van Rensselaer, my wife has gone away. We have searched all night and cannot find her. I was sure she had come home. Oh, what shall I do?"

"Well, I'm sure I don't see how I'm to blame for her having left you," snapped out Mrs. Van Rensselaer. "I did my part and made sure you got her. You ought to have been able to keep her after you had her. How'd she come to leave you?"

"I cannot tell exactly. She went up to see Mother a few minutes after supper, and then——"

"Oh!" said Mrs. Van Rensselaer, with disagreeable significance.

"And then we could not find her," went on Charles, unheeding. "She left a note with good-by. That was all. I have no clue."

The front door opened, and Mr. Van Rensselaer walked in. His face was white, for he had not slept well. In a dream his dead wife had stood before him and seemed to be taking him to task about her child, the daughter who left her father's house but a few hours before. He had gone out for the morning mail, hoping to get rid of the phantoms that pursued his steps, but his head was throbbing.

How much he had heard of what they had been saying, they did not know. He stood before them white and stern-looking, glancing from one to the other of the two in the dim parlor.

"Where is my daughter?" he asked.

"She is gone, Mr. Van Rensselaer," answered Charles pitifully. "I have searched for her all night long. I hoped she was here."

"Gone?" repeated the father in a strange, far-away voice; then he wavered for an instant, and fell at their feet, as if dead. The accusations of his own heart had reached their mark. The iron will yielded at last to the finger of God.

They carried him to his bed and called the doctor. Confusion reigned in the house. The old doctor shook his head and called it apoplexy. Mr. Van Rensselaer was still living, and might linger for some time, but it would be a living death.

And so, while he lay upon his bed, breathing, but dead to the world about him, they made what plans they could to find his daughter. Charles's father came in sadly, reporting no success in the search. They started out once more after a brief rest.

Mrs. Van Rensselaer was in no condition to help them now. She had her hands full, poor woman. One thing had been spared her: her husband did not know her part in the disappearance of his daughter. Perhaps he might never need to know; yet as she went about ministering to that silent, living dead, whom she had loved beyond anything earthly, her heart was full of bitterness and fear.

The months that followed were terrible to Charles. After a few days of keeping the matter quiet and hoping they would find her by themselves, they made the disappearance public, and the whole countryside joined in the search.

The greatest drawback to success was that so few people had seen Dawn since she grew up. The servants in her father's house had seen her during the week she had been home from school, but scarcely any one else except for a passing glance on the street. All searching was in vain. There were notices put in the papers of that region. They sent to her old school for knowledge of her; they left no stone unturned. And the wonder of it is that Dawn's friend, the minister, or some of the selectmen, especially Silas Dobson, did not see the notices that appeared in New York papers and in those of smaller towns, and connect the mysterious disappearance with the new teacher that had come to their village. But the old clergyman had vouched for her, and there was apparently no mystery about her. This good man did not often have opportunity to read papers of other towns, save his regular weekly religious sheet. Then, too, the place where Dawn had found refuge was small and insignificant, and not on the line of most travel. She could not have been better sheltered from the searchers.

It was the day after Charles had been to see the body of a young woman who had been found in the river some fifty miles distant from his home, that he became ill with typhoid fever.

Not for a day had he rested or given up his search. When one clue failed, he went to the next with restless, feverish energy, and a haunted look in his eyes. The boy had become a man, and the man was bearing a heavy burden. His father saw it, and grieved for him. His mother saw it, and accused herself. His sisters saw it, and did their best to help him. Betty was constantly thinking up new plans for the search, and saying comforting, cheering things to her brother. Charles loved her dearly for it, but nothing brought relief. His affection for Dawn had been such as rarely grows in a human heart, even after years of acquaintance. It had sprung full-bloomed into being, and filled his whole soul. It is said that to the average man love is but an incident, while to a woman it is the whole of life. If that be so, there are exceptions, and Charles was one of them. He kept his love for his girl-wife as the greatest thing life had for him, and thought of nothing else day or night but to find her.

No one dared to suggest his going back to college. That would be to admit that the search was hopeless, and that might prove fatal to Charles. The neighbors had begun to shake their heads and pity him. It was even whispered that the girl might have run away with another man, though no one ventured to say such a thing in the hearing of the family.

If it had been in these days of telegraphs and telephones, railroads and detectives, it would have been but a matter of days until they had found her, but in those times travel and search were long and hard. There seemed little hope. It was the third dead face which Charles had searched for likeness to the girl he loved. He came home worn and exhausted, his spirit utterly discouraged and weary, and he was an easy prey to the disease which gripped him from the first in its most violent form.

Silence and sadness settled down upon the Winthrop household while the life of Charles was held in the balance. The father carried on the search for the lost wife more vigorously than ever, believing that the sight of her might bring his boy back even from the grave; but nothing developed.

News from the Van Rensselaers gave no hope of the paralyzed man's recovery. He was lying like a thing of stone, unable to move. He could not even make a sound. Only his eyes followed his tormented wife, like haunting spirits sent to condemn her. The face was set in its stern expression, like a fallen statue of his proud, imperious self.

It was mid-winter before Charles began slowly to creep back to life, and there was still no clue to Dawn. They dreaded to have him ask about her; though they had noticed how he had searched their faces every morning after consciousness returned to him. He knew as well as they that nothing had been accomplished toward finding her.

One day he seemed more cheerful and a little stronger, and called old Mr. Winthrop to his side.

"Father," said he, "I've been thinking that perhaps she'd not like to come back here, the way she feels about it. There was a little white house on the hills beyond Albany that we noticed as we came along on the train. We both said we should like to live there among the trees. Would you be willing that I should take the money Grandfather left to me and buy that little house for her to come to? Then I could put a notice in the papers telling her it was ready, and perhaps she would see it and understand."

The old man's heart was heavy, for he had begun to believe that Dawn was no longer in the land of the living; but he would have consented to any plan that would comfort his boy and give him a new interest in life, and so as soon as Charles was able to travel they went together to purchase the small farm and little white house. The next day there appeared in the New York papers this notice, which was printed many weeks and copied into numerous village papers:

Dawn, the little white house we saw near Albany is ready for us. Write and tell me where to find you. CHARLES.

But nothing ever came in answer, though Charles watched every mail with feverish anxiety; and he still kept up his search in other directions. So the spring crept on, and almost it was a year since Dawn had left him.

CHAPTER XXIV

Dawn had been in New York two months, after various trying experiences in getting there, and all that time she had been unable to find anything to do by which she could earn her living.

The miserable little boarding place, the best she could afford, was growing more and more uncomfortable as the hot weather came on. Dawn was thin and worn and sad. Her money which she had earned during the winter, and which she had always carried sewed inside her garments, was fast melting away. A few more weeks, and she would be penniless. She began to wonder what would come next, and to question whether it would not have been better to stay with the school, and trust the old minister and Daniel to protect her from Harrington Winthrop. But always, after thinking it over, she decided that she could not have been safe when he knew her whereabouts.

There was one other thing which troubled her constantly now. It was that sentence of Daniel's: "He'd rather have you and the trouble, than to have no trouble without you." Was it true? Did Charles love her that way? Was she giving him trouble by staying away? "If he's anything like you say he is, he's most crazy hunting you," Daniel had said. Was that true, too? Could he be hunting her yet? Had she been wrong in coming away? Gradually she came to admit to herself that there might have been a better way. She might have made a mistake. But it was too late now to remedy it. She could not go back on her promise that she would trouble him no more. She could not bring added disgrace to him now that she had stayed away all these months and everybody must know it. Oh, how long and hard life was! And then she once more went wearily at her task of hunting a position.

Slowly, stealthily, up from the south; strangely, unexpectedly, down from the Canadian border, there crept a grim spectre of death. Heard of from afar with indifference at first, it gradually grew more terrifying as it drew nearer. Now and then the death of a well-known victim caused uneasiness to become more manifest.

Hotter grew the sun, and nearer drew the spectre. The daily papers contained advice for protection against it. The cities cleaned their streets and warned their citizens. The temperance societies called attention to the fact that hard drinkers were in more danger than others. Meat and milk and vegetables were carefully inspected. Water was boiled. Cheerfulness was put on like a garment, and assurance was flaunted everywhere. People were told to keep up a good heart and keep clean, and there was little danger. Still the spectre crept nearer, laying hands upon its victims, and daily the reports grew more alarming. It was near the end of June when the ministers met in New York and petitioned the President to appoint a general day of fasting and prayer to avert the oncoming pestilence. Andrew Jackson replied that it was in their line, not his, to decide whether this matter was important enough to bring to the notice of the Almighty, and he left it in their hands. The days went by, and the spectre crept on. The Governors of the States began to appoint days of prayer. At last the cholera was a recognized fact. It had come to do its worst. The newspapers abandoned their talk of its impossibility, and set about making the best of things, describing the precautions to be taken, the preliminary symptoms, and the best method of treatment. For a time, during the latter part of June and the early part of July, it was hoped that by vigilance and care it could be kept out of New York City. The worst of the pestilence was in the Southern States, though it had made great ravages as far north as Cincinnati. And from Canada it was spreading south into New York State. Here and there a little town would have a single case, which would send terror throughout the county, and daily the number grew greater.

Charles was looking worn and thin. He had bought the little house, and had had it renovated. It was furnished now, and waiting for the bride who did not come. His heart grew sick with the great fear that was growing within him, the fear that he should never find her on this earth. Of late, a new worry had come to him. A letter had come to his father from Harrington's wife, saying that she was destitute, as her husband had deserted her again. He had stayed with her but a week after he brought her home, though he had promised many things.

In spite of himself, Charles could not get it out of his mind that Harrington had spirited Dawn away somewhere. He did not doubt her for an instant. He would not let himself think that she might still have some lurking love for the man who had not scrupled to do her a wrong. He laid all blame, if blame there was, upon his brother. Harrington had sometimes appropriated his younger brother's boyish treasures to his own use when they were both younger, and Charles had no doubt he would not hesitate to do thus even with his brother's wife, were such a thing possible.

Sometimes the remembrance of the terror in Dawn's eyes when she asked about Harrington and where she would have to meet him, made Charles fairly writhe, and he felt that he must fly somewhere, to the ends of the earth if need be, and find her.

He lay on the couch in the library one warm evening in early July. Betty sat beside him, reading the New York paper which had just been brought by the evening coach. She was trying to distract his mind from the ever-present sorrow over which he seemed to brood every minute when he was not in actual motion trying to find his wife. This evening there was a deeper gloom over them on account of having received that morning news of the death of Mr. Van Rensselaer.

Charles lay still, with his face shaded from the candlelight, and let Betty read. He was paying little heed, but it made Betty happier to think that she was helping him to bear his pain. The little sister's sympathy was a great comfort, and so if she could think she was helping him, he was glad. He was occupied in trying to think out a plan for finding Harrington, just to make sure that he knew nothing about Dawn.

"Here's something about the new railroad, Charles. Shall I read that, or would you rather have me read Parley's Magazine than the Commercial-Advertiser?"

"Oh, read the Commercial-Advertiser, by all means," said Charles, trying to rouse himself to take an interest for Betty's sake. His head was aching, and he was weary in both body and soul.

"Well, listen to this, Charles. Isn't this wonderful? They've completed the railroad from Saratoga to Ballston. They can go eight miles in twenty-eight minutes! Think of that beside the stage-coach travelling! It takes only an hour and five minutes to go from Ballston to Schenectady, and you can go from Albany to Saratoga in three hours. Who would ever have believed it true? Do you suppose it is true, or have they exaggerated?"

"Oh, I guess they can do it," said Charles, with a sigh. The new railroad made him think of his wedding journey. Oh, to take it over again and never let his bride out of his sight!

Betty read on:

"Governor Howard, of Maryland, has set July 4th as a day of prayer that the cholera may decline. Governor Cass says——"

but a low moan from Charles made her fly to another column to distract his mind:

"Here's the report of the meeting of the Foreign Mission Board in New York. Would you like to hear that? It looks interesting. The evening address was made by the Honorable Stephen Van Rensselaer. Why——" Betty stopped in dismay, but Charles answered the wonder in her tone quietly:

"Yes, Betty, Stephen Van Rensselaer is a cousin of Mr. Van Rensselaer. He is a fine speaker. Read about it."

But Charles did not attend, though Betty rattled off a lot of statistics glibly, inwardly blaming herself for constantly coming upon things that would remind Charles of his loss.

"There are twelve missions now, with fifty-five stations, under the Board. Seven are in India, two in Asia, four in the Mediterranean, seven in the Sandwich Islands, twenty-seven among the southwestern Indians, four among the northeastern Indians, and four among the Indians of New York State. There are seventy-five missionaries, four physicians, four printers, eighteen teachers, twenty farmers and mechanics, and one hundred and thirty-one females, married and single, sent out from this country."

"My! Isn't that a lot!" commented Betty.

Just below the report of the missionary meeting was a brief paragraph. She plunged into it without stopping to glance it over.

"Disappeared. A female dressed in a white straw bonnet trimmed with white satin ribbon, a black silk gown, white crêpe shawl with flowered border, black silk stockings, and chocolate-colored parasol."

"Oh!" cried Betty in dismay, and then went wildly on to the next column, not daring to look at her brother:

"The Honorable William Wort has purchased a plantation in Florida, and is going to work it with hired hands. This will do more toward opening the eyes of the slaveholders than all the declamatory efforts of the free States since the adoption of the Constitution."

"That is quoted from the United States Gazette, Charles, and the editor of this paper has a long, dry-looking comment on it. Do you want to hear it?"

Betty looked uneasily at her brother, but his white face was turned toward the wall.

"Here's an article about Barnabas Bidwell, and something about General Prosper Wetmore. Doesn't father know General Wetmore, Charles?" Betty felt she was not getting on well at all.

"I believe he does," answered her brother patiently, and then the knocker sounded insistently through the house, and Charles came to an upright position in an instant. He seemed ever to be thus on the alert for something to happen. And this time something did happen.

A negro boy stood at the door with a note scrawled on a leaf from a memorandum-book. He said he was to give it to Mr. Winthrop at once. As his father was out, Charles read it. Betty held the candle for him to see. It was badly written, with pale ink. Betty's hand trembled and made the candle waver. She felt that something momentous was in the air.

"Come to me at once. I'm desperately ill.—Harrington," read the note. It was like the writer to command and expect to be obeyed.

Charles pressed the note into Betty's hand, saying, "Give it to Father as soon as he comes, and don't let Mother or Aunt Martha know." Then he seized his hat and sprang out into the night, urging his escort into a run, and demanding an explanation as he went.

But the boy could tell little of what was the matter. He knew only that he had been sent in great haste, and that the gentleman was very sick.

The night was still and warm. There was a yellow haze over the world, and a sultry feeling in the air. People had been remarking all day how warm it was for the season of year.

Charles plunged through the night with only one thought in mind. He was to see his brother in a few minutes, and he must take every means to find out whether he had any knowledge of Dawn. His whole soul was bent on the purpose that had been his main object in life during the past year.

It occurred to him that Harrington might be in need of medical attendance, though that was a sort of secondary consideration at the time. So he sent the negro boy after their family physician. He himself went on alone to the inn, some two miles from the village, where the boy said his brother was stopping.

When Charles reached the inn he found a group of excited people gathered near the steps, and the word "cholera" floated to his ears, but it meant little to him.

In a moment he was standing by his brother's bedside.

Harrington turned away from him with a groan.

"Is it only you?" he muttered angrily. "I sent for Father."

"Father was not in. He will come as soon as he returns. I will do anything you want done. I have sent for the doctor. But before I do anything, you must answer me one question. Do you know where Dawn is? Have you seen her since the day of the wedding?"

Harrington turned bloodshot eyes upon his brother.

"Who is Dawn?" he sneered. "Oh, I see! You mean Miss Van Rensselaer. Yes, I remember you were smitten with her the only time you ever saw her. I believe in my soul it was you who cheated me out of my little game, and not Alberta at all. Well, it doesn't matter. I've got something better on the string now, if I ever get out of this cursed hole. Let the doll-faced baby go. She wasn't worth all the trouble it took to keep track of her."

Then suddenly he was seized in the vise of an awful agony, and cried out with oaths and curses.

Down below his window a group of huddled negroes heard, and a shudder went through them. They drew away, and whispered in sepulchral tones.

Charles stood over his brother in helpless horror until the agony was passed, and Harrington gasped out:

"Go for the doctor, you fool! Do you want to see me die before your eyes?"

Charles's voice was grave and commanding as he stood over his brother and demanded once more:

"Answer me, Harrington. Have you seen her since the day of the wedding? Answer me quickly. I will help you just as soon as I know all. I shall not do a thing until you tell me."

A groan and a curse were all the answer he got, and a cold frenzy seized him, lest he should never get Harrington to tell what he knew. He understood that his brother was a very sick man. Great beads of perspiration stood upon his forehead.

"Get me some whiskey, you brute!" cried out the stricken man. "That awful agony is coming again. Well, if you must know, she's teaching school in a little forsaken village over beyond Schoharie—Butternuts, they call it. At least, she was till I appeared on the scene. Then she made away with herself somehow. I stayed three days, waiting for her, but she didn't come back. I stopped off last week, and the people said she'd never returned. No one knew anything about her but a tow-headed boy who called himself Daniel and said he helped carry her bag to the stage-coach. Now get me that whiskey quick. I feel the pain coming again."

Charles turned without a word and dashed downstairs to the landlady, demanding hot water and blankets. He knew little about illness, save what his mother's semi-invalid state had taught him, but he had read enough in the papers lately to make him sure that Harrington had the cholera, and he knew that whiskey was not a remedy. Before he could return to his brother the doctor arrived, and together they went up to the sick man, who was writhing in agony, and again demanding whiskey.

The old doctor shook his head when he saw the patient.

"He has indulged in that article far too much already," he said.

Then began a night of horror, followed by a day of stupor on the part of the patient. The doctor had said from the start that it was cholera, and that the disease was almost always fatal to persons of intemperate habits. Charles held himself steadily to the task of the moment, and tried to still the calling of his heart to fly at once and find Dawn. Not another word had he been able to get from his brother. The pain had been so intolerable that Harrington had been unable to speak, and little by little he grew delirious until he did not recognize any of them. At times he cried out as if in wild carouse. Once or twice he called "Alberta!" in an angry tone, then muttered Mr. Van Rensselaer's name. Never once did he speak the name of Dawn. This fact gave Charles unspeakable relief.

All through the night and day the doctor, the brother, and the father worked side by side, but each knew from the first that there was no hope, and at evening he died.

They buried Harrington Winthrop in the old lot where rested the mortal remains of other more worthy members of the family; and the father turned away with bowed head and broken heart for such an ending to his elder son's misspent life, and kept saying over to himself, "Has it been my fault? Has it been my fault?"

They were almost home when Charles, who had been silent and thoughtful, touched the older man on the shoulder.

"Father, shall you mind my going away at once?" he asked. "I have a clue, and must follow it."

Mr. Winthrop lifted his grief-stricken head, and, looking at his son tenderly, said:

"Go, my boy, and may you gain your heart's desire!"

CHAPTER XXV

The next evening at sunset Charles stood beside the Butterworth gate, about to enter, when Daniel came out. The boy had finished his early supper, and was going to the village on an errand. His face was grave and thoughtful, as always since the teacher's departure.