OUT AT ELBOWS.

THE STORY OF ST. GEORGE CLEAVE.

BY JOHN ESTEN COOKE, OF VIRGINIA.

I.

How good a thing it is to live! The morn is full of music; and Annie is singing in the hall!

The sun falls with a tranquil glory on the fields and forests, burning with the golden splendors of the autumn—the variegated leaves of the mighty oaks are draped about the ancient gables, like a trophy of banners. The landscape sleeps; all the world smiles—shall not I?

I sat up late last night at my accounts; to-day I will take a holiday. The squire has bidden me good morning in his courteous, good-humored way, and gone in his carriage to attend a meeting of his brother magistrates:—I am away for the time from my noisy courts—the domain is mine—all the world is still!

No;—Annie is singing in the hall.

She sings to herself, I think, this autumn morning, and would not like to be interrupted. I will therefore take a ramble—and you shall accompany me, O friend of my youth, far away in distant lands, but beside me still! Whither shall we go? It is hard to decide, for all the world is lovely. Shall we go to my favorite woodland? It skirts the river, and I love the river; so we pass into the forest.

How regal is the time of the fall of the leaves! A thousand brilliant colors charm the eyes—the eyes of their faithful lovers. How the mighty oaks reach out their knotty, muscular arms to welcome us!—how their ponderous shoulders bear aloft the imperial trappings—trappings of silk and velvet, all orange, blue, and purple! The haughty pines stand up like warriors—or call them spears of nordland heroes, holding on their summits emerald banners! The tulip-trees are lovely queens with flowers in their hair, who bend and welcome you with gracious murmurs; the slender elms sway to and fro, like fairest maidens of the royal blood; and sigh, and smile, and whisper, full of the charming grace of youth, and tenderness, and beauty.

I salute my noblemen, and queens, and princesses; they bow in return to me, their king. Let us wander on.

—Ah! that is well; my river view! Of all my broad domain, I think I like this part the best. Is it not beautiful? That clump of dogwood, however, obstructs the view somewhat; I must cut it down. Let us move a little to the right. Ah! there it is! See my lovely river; surely you must admire my swan-like ships, flying, with snowy canvass spread, before the fresh breeze. And see that schooner breaking the little waves into foam. Is that a telescope which the captain of my vessel points toward us? He salutes me, does he not? But I fear the distance is too great; he could hardly recognize me. Still I shall bow—let us not neglect the laws of courtesy.

My ship is sailing onward. In earlier days I had many barks which sailed from shore; they were freighted with the richest goods, and made me very anxious. So my argosies went sailing, but they never came again. One bore my poem, which I thought would make me very celebrated, but the ship was lost. Another was to bring me back a cargo of such beautiful things—things which make life delightful to so many!—pearls, and silks, and wines, and gold-laced suits—garters, rosettes, and slips of ribbon to be worn at the button-hole. This, too, was lost, and yet it did not grieve me much. The third caused me more regret; I do not think I have yet wholly recovered from its loss. It bore a maiden with sunny hair, and the tenderest, sweetest eyes! She said she loved me—yes a thousand times! and I—I loved her long and dearly. But the ship in which she sailed went down—the strong, good ship, as I regarded it. She died thus,—did she not?—or is it true that she was married to a richer suitor far away from me in foreign lands?... These are foolish tears—let me not think of her with want of charity; she was only a woman, and we men are often very weak. One over all, is alone great and good. So, beautiful ship!—I say—that sailed across my path in youth, sail on in peace and happiness! A lonely bark, lonely but not unhappy, sees you, on the distant, happy seas, and the pennon floats from the peak in amicable greeting and salute. Hail and farewell! Heaven send the ship a happy voyage, and a welcome home!

This little soliloquy perhaps wearies you; it is ended. Let us sail for an hour or so on the silver wave; my new pleasure-boat is rocking here beneath in the shadow of the oak. She is built for speed. See how gracefully she falls and rises, like a variegated leaf upon the waves—how the slender prow curves upward—how the gaily-colored sides are mirrored in the limpid surface of the joyous stream! Come, let us step into the little craft, and unfurl the snowy sail.... How provoking! I have left my boat key at the hall; another day we will sail. Let us stroll back to the good old house again.

Are not my fields pleasant to behold? They are bringing in my wheat, which stretches, you perceive, throughout the low-grounds there, in neatly arranged shocks. My crops this year are excellent—my servants enjoy this season, and its occupations. They will soon sing their echoing "harvest home"—and over them at their joyous labor will shine the "harvest-moon," lighting up field and forest, hill and dale—the whole "broad domain and the hall." The affection of my servants is grateful to me. Here comes Cato, with his team of patient oxen, and there goes Cæsar, leading my favorite racehorse down to water. Cato, Cæsar, and I, respectively salute each other in the kindest way. I think they are attached to me. Faithful fellows! I shall never part with them. I think I will give this coat to Cæsar; but, looking again, I perceive that his own is better. Besides, I must not be extravagant. The little money I make is required by another, and it would not be generous to buy a new coat for myself. This one which I wear will do well enough, will it not? I ask you with some diffidence, for 'tis sadly out at elbows, and the idea has occurred to me that the coolness and neglect of certain visitors to the hall, has been caused by my coat being shabby. Even Annie——, but I'll not speak of that this morning. 'Twas the hasty word which we all utter at times—'tis forgotten. Still, I think, I will give you the incident some day, when we ramble, as now, in the fields.

From the fields we approach the honest old mansion, across the emerald-carpeted lawn. The birds are singing, around the sleepy-looking gables, and the toothless old hound comes wagging his tail, in sign of welcome.

'Tis plain that Milo has an honest heart. I think he's smiling.

II

My ancestors were gentlemen of considerable taste. I am glad they built me that wing for my books; my numerous children cannot disturb me when I am composing, either my speech to be delivered in the Senate, or my work which is destined to refute Sir William Hamilton.

Let us stroll in. A strain of tender music comes from the sitting-room, and I recognize the exquisite air of "Katharine Ogie" which Annie is singing. Let us look, nevertheless, at the pictures as we pass.

What a stately head my old grandfather had! He was president of the King's Council, a hundred years ago—a man of decided mark. He wears a long peruke descending in curls upon his shoulders—a gold-laced waistcoat—and snowy ruffles. His white hand is nearly covered with lace, and rests on a scroll of parchment. It looks like a Vandyke. He must have been a resolute old gentleman. How serene and calm is his look!—how firm are the finely chiselled lips! How proud and full of collected intelligence the erect head, and the broad white brow! He was a famous "macaroni," as they called it, in his youth—and cultivated an enormous crop of wild oats. But this all disappeared, and he became one of the sturdiest patriots of the Revolution, and fought clear through the contest. Is it wrong to feel satisfaction at being descended from a worthy race of men—from a family of brave, truthful gentlemen? I think not. I trust I'm no absurd aristocrat—but I would rather be the grandson of a faithful common soldier than of General Benedict Arnold, the traitor. I would rather trace my lineage to the Chevalier Bayàrd, simple knight though he was, than to France's great Constable de Bourbon, the renegade.

So I am glad my stout grandfather was a brave and truthful gentleman—that grandma yonder, smiling opposite, was worthy to be his wife. I do not remember her, but she must have been a beauty. Her head is bent over one shoulder, and she has an exquisitely coquettish air. Her eyes are blue—her arms round, and as white as snow—and what lips! They are like carnations, and pout with a pretty smiling air, which must have made her dangerous. She rejected many wealthy offers to marry grandpa, who was then poor. As I gaze, it seems scarcely courteous to remain thus covered in presence of a lady so lovely. I take off my hat, and make my best bow, saluting my little grandmamma of "sweet seventeen," who smiles and seems graciously to bow in return.

All around me I see my family. There is my uncle, the captain in Colonel Washington's troop. I do not now mean the Colonel Washington of the French wars, who afterward became General Washington of the American Revolution—though my uncle, the captain, knew him very well, I am told, and often visited him at Mount Vernon, the colonel's estate, where they hunted foxes together, along the Potomac. I mean the brave Colonel Washington who fought so nobly in North Carolina. My uncle died there. His company was much thinned at every step by the horrible hail-storm of balls. He was riding in front with his drawn sword, shouting as the column fell, man by man, "Steady, boys, steady!—close up!"—when a ball struck him. His last words were "A good death, boys! a good death! Close up!" So, you see, he ended nobly.

Beside my uncle and the rest of his kith and kin of the wars, you see, yonder, a row of beauties, all smiling and gay, or pensive and tender—interspersed with bright-faced children, blooming like so many flowers along the old walls of the hall. How they please and interest me! True, there are other portraits in our little house at home—not my hall here—which, perhaps, I should love with a warmer regard; but let me not cramp my sympathies, or indulge any early preferences. I must not be partial. So I admire these here before me—and bow to them, one and all. I fancy that they bow in return—that the stalwart warriors stretch vigorous hands toward me—that the delicate beauties bend down their little heads, all covered with powder, and return my homage with a smile.

Why not? Can my shabby coat make the lovely or proud faces ashamed of me? Do they turn from me coldly because I'm the last of a ruined line? Do they sneer at my napless hat, and laugh at my tattered elbows? I do not think of them so poorly and unkindly. My coat is very shabby, but I think, at least I hope, that it covers an honest heart.

So I bow to the noble and beautiful faces, and again they smile in return. I seem to have wandered away into the past and dreamed in a realm of silence. And yet—it is strange I did not hear her—Annie is still singing through the hall.

III.

I promised to tell you of the incident of the coat, the unfortunate coat which I sometimes think makes the rich folks visiting the hall look sidewise at me. It is strange! Am I not myself, whether clad in velvet or in fustian—in homespun fabric, or in cloth of gold? People say I am simple—wholly ignorant of the world; I must be so in truth.

But about the coat. I hinted that Annie even saw, and alluded to it; it was not long after my arrival at the hall, and a young lady from the neighborhood was paying a visit to Annie.

They were standing on the portico, and I was leaning against the trunk of the old oak beneath, admiring the sunset which was magnificent that evening. All at once I heard whispers, and turning round toward the young ladies, saw them laughing. Annie's finger was extended toward the hole in my elbow, and I could not fail to understand that she was laughing at my miserable coat.

I was not offended, though perhaps I may have been slightly wounded; but Annie was a young girl and I could not get angry; I was not at all ashamed—why should I have been?

"I am sorry, but I cannot help the hole in my elbow," I said, calmly and quietly, with a bow and a smile; "I tore it by accident, yesterday."

Annie blushed, and looked very proud and offended, and it pained me to see that she suffered for her harmless and, careless speech. I begged her not to think that my feelings were wounded, and bowing again, went up to my room. I looked at my coat, it was terribly shabby, and I revolved the propriety of purchasing another, but I gave up the idea with a sigh. She needs all my money, and my mind is made up; she shall have the black silk, and very soon.

I very nearly forgot to relate what followed the little scene on the portico. During all that evening, and the whole of the next day, Annie scarcely looked at me, and retained her angry and offended expression. I was pained, but could add nothing more to my former assurance that I was not offended.

Toward evening, I was sitting with a book upon the portico, when Annie came out of the parlor. She paused on the threshold, evidently hesitated, but seemed to resolve all at once, what to do. She came quickly to my side, and holding out her hand said frankly and kindly, with a little tremor in her voice, and a faint rose-tint in the delicate cheeks:

"I did not mean to hurt your feelings, Mr. Cleave, indeed I did not, sir; my speech was the thoughtless rudeness of a child. I am sorry, very sorry that I was ever so ill-bred and unkind; will you pardon me, sir?"

I rose from my seat, and bowed low above the white little hand which lay in my own, slightly agitated,—

"I have nothing to pardon, Miss Annie," I said, "if you will let me call you by your household name. I think it very fortunate that my coat was shabby; had it been a new one, you would never have observed it, and I should have lost these sweet and friendly accents."

And that is the "incident of the coat."

IV.

The week that has just passed has been a pleasant one. I have thought, a hundred times, "how good a thing it is to live!"

I must have been a good deal cramped and confined in the city; but I enjoy the fair landscapes here all the more. The family are very friendly and kind—except Mrs. Barrington, who does not seem to like me. She scarcely treats me with anything more than scrupulous courtesy. The squire and Annie, however, make up for this coldness. They are both extremely cordial. It was friendly in the squire to give me this mass of executorial accounts to arrange. So far it has been done to his entire satisfaction; and the payment for my services is very liberal. How I long for money!

There was a splendid party at the hall on Tuesday. It reminded me of old times, when we, too,—but that is idle to remember. I do not sigh for the past. I know all is for the best. Still, I could not help thinking, as I looked on the brilliant spectacle, that the world was full of changes and vicissitudes. Well, the party was a gay and delightful one; the dancing quite extravagant. Annie was the beauty of the assemblage—the belle of the ball—and she gave me a new proof of the regret which she felt for the speech about my coat. At the end of a cotillon she refused the arms of half a dozen eager gallants to take mine, and promenade out on the portico.

"Do you ever dance?" she said.

"Oh, yes," I replied; "that is, I did dance once; but of late years I have been too much occupied. We live quietly."

"You say 'we.'"

"I mean my mother and I; I should have said 'poorly,' perhaps, instead of 'quietly,' And I am busy."

She bowed her head kindly, and said, smiling:

"But you are not busy to-night; and if you'll not think me forward, I will reverse the etiquette, and ask you to dance with me."

"Indeed I will do so with very great pleasure."

"Are you sure?"

"Could you doubt it?"

"I was so very rude to you!"

And she hung her head. That, then, was the secret of her choice of my arm. I could only assure her that I did not think her rude, and I hoped she would forget the whole incident. I was pleased in spite of all—for I like to think well of women. The cynical writers say they are all mean, and mercenary, and cowardly. Was Annie? She had left many finely-dressed gentlemen, faultlessly appointed, to dance with a poor stranger, quite out at elbows.

I saw many cold looks directed at myself; and when Annie took my arm to go into supper, the gloom in the faces of some gentlemen who had been refused, made me smile. When the party was over, Annie gave me her hand at the foot of the staircase. I saw a triumphant light in her mischievous eyes, as she glanced at the departing gallants; her rosy cheeks dimpled, and she flitted up, humming a gay tune.

It is singular how beautiful she is when she laughs—as when she sighs. Am I falling in love with her? I shall be guilty of no such folly. I think that my pride and self-respect will keep me rational. Pshaw! why did I dream of such nonsense!

V.

So—a month has passed.

My coat, it seems, is to be the constant topic of attention.

A day or two since, I was sitting in my chamber, reflecting upon a variety of things. My thoughts, at last, centred on the deficiencies of my wardrobe, and I muttered, "I must certainly have my coat mended soon;" and I looked down, sighing, at the hole in my elbow.... It had disappeared! There was no longer any rent. The torn cloth had been mended in the neatest manner; so neatly, indeed, that the orifice was almost invisible. Who could have done it, and how? I have one coat only, and—yes! it must have been! I saw, in a moment, the whole secret: that noise, and the voice of Sarah, the old chambermaid.

I rose and went out on the staircase; I met the good crone.

"How did you find my coat in the dark?" I said, smiling; "and now you must let me make you a present for mending it, Sarah."

Sarah hesitated, plainly; but honesty conquered. She refused the money, which, nevertheless, I gave her; and, from her careless replies, I soon discovered the real truth.

The coat had been mended by Annie!

I descended to the drawing-room, and finding her alone, thanked her with simplicity and sincerity. She blushed and pouted.

"Who told you?" she asked.

"No one; but I discovered it from Sarah; she was unguarded."

"Well, sir," said Annie, blushing still, but laughing, "there is no reason for your being so grateful, I thought I would mend it, as I formerly laughed at it—and I hope it is neatly done."

"It is scarcely visible," I said, with a smile and a bow; "I shall keep this coat always to remind me of your delicate kindness."

"Pshaw! 'twas nothing."

And running to the piano, the young girl commenced a merry song, which rang through the old hall like the carol of a bird. Her voice was so inexpressibly sweet that it made my pulses throb and my heart ache. I did not know the expression of my countenance, as I looked at her, until turning toward me, I saw her suddenly color to the roots of her hair.

I felt, all at once, that I had fixed upon her one of those looks which say as plainly as words could utter: "I love you with all the powers of my nature, all the faculties of my being—you are dearer to me than the whole wide world beside!"

Upon my word of honor as a gentleman, I did not know that I loved Annie—I was not conscious that I was gazing at her with that look of inexpressible tenderness. Her sudden blush cleared up everything like a flash of lightning—I rose, set my lips together, and bowed. I could scarcely speak—I muttered "pray excuse me," and left the apartment.

On the next morning I begged the squire to release me from the completion of my task—I had a friend who could perform the duties as well as myself, and who would come to the hall for that purpose, inasmuch as the account books could not be removed—I must go.

The formal and ceremonious old gentleman did not ask my reasons for this sudden act—he simply inclined his head—and said that he would always be glad to serve me. With a momentary pressure of Annie's cold hand, and a low bow to the frigid Mrs. Barrington, I departed.

VI.

Five years have passed away. They have been eventful ones to me—not for the unhoped for success which I have had in my profession, so much as for the long suffering which drove me, violently as it were, to seek relief in unceasing toil.

The thought of Annie has been ever with me—my pain, though such a term is slight, was caused by my leaving her. I never knew how much I loved her until all those weary miles were thrown between us. My days have been most unhappy, my nights drearier still; for a long time now, I have not thought or said "how good a thing it is to live!"

But I acted wisely, and honorably; did I not? I did my duty, when the temptation to neglect it was exceeding hard to resist. I went away from the woman whom I loved, because I loved her, and respected my own name and honor, too much to remain. It was better to break my heart, I said, than take advantage of my position at the hall, to engage a young girl's heart, and drag her down, in case she loved me, to the poor low sphere in which I moved. If her father had said to me, "You have abused the trust I placed in you, and acted with duplicity," I think it would have ruined me, forever, in my own esteem. And would he not have had the right to say it?

So I came away from the temptation while I could, and plunged into my proper work on earth, and found relief; but I loved her still.

Shall I speak of the correspondence which ensued between the squire and myself? 'Twas a somewhat singular one, and revealed to me something which I was before quite ignorant of. It is here beneath my hand; let us look at it. It passed soon after my departure:

"Barrington Hall, Nov. 20, 18—.

"My dear young Friend:

"Since your somewhat abrupt departure, I have considered that event with some attention, and fear that it was occasioned by a want of kindness in myself, or some member of my family. I saw with regret that Mrs. Barrington did not seem to look upon you with as much favor as I hoped. If any word or action of mine has wounded you, I pray you to forget and pardon it.

"Your friend,

"C. Barrington.

"P.S. Pray present my best regards to your mother, who was many long years ago, a very dear friend of mine."

My reply was in the following words:

"My dear Mr. Barrington:

"Pray set your mind at rest upon the subject of my somewhat hasty departure: 'twas caused by no want of courtesy in any member of the household at the hall, but by unavoidable circumstances. You will not think me wanting in candor or sincerity when I add that I think these circumstances were better not alluded to at present.

"Truly and faithfully,

"St. George Cleave."

Thus ended then our correspondence. Three years afterward I received another letter, in a handwriting somewhat tremulous and broken. It contained simply the words:

"I am very ill; if your convenience will permit, may I ask you to come and see me, my young friend?

"C. Barrington."

I need not say that I went at once. As I approached the old manor house a thousand memories knocked at the door of my heart. There were the fields over which I had rambled; there was the emerald lawn where so often I had wandered in the long-gone days of earlier years. The great oak against which I had leaned on that evening to watch the sun in his setting, and where Annie had whispered and pointed to my torn elbow, still raised its head proudly, and embowered the old gables in the bright-tinted foliage of autumn.

I entered. The old portraits I had loved seemed to smile; they saluted me sweetly, as in other hours; the old mansion appeared to welcome me—I saw no change, but Annie was not singing in the hall.

All at once I heard a light tinkling footstep; my heart beat violently, and I felt a blush rise to my cheeks. Was the queenly woman who came to meet and greet me, indeed the Annie of old days? I held the small hand, and looked into the deep eyes for some moments without uttering a word. She was taller, more slender, but her carriage possessed a grace and elegance a thousand times finer than before. Her eyes were filled with the strangest sweetness, and swam with tears as she gazed at me.

"Papa has been waiting impatiently for you, Mr. Cleave," she said, in a low, sad voice; "will you come up and see him at once? he is very ill."

And turning away her head, the fair girl burst into uncontrollable sobs, every one of which went to my heart. I begged her earnestly not to yield to her distress, and she soon dried her eyes, and led the way into the parlor, where I was received by Mrs. Barrington, still cold and stiff, but much more subdued and courteous. Annie went to announce my arrival to her father, and soon I was alone with the old man.

I was grieved and shocked at his appearance. He seemed twenty years older. I scarcely recognized in the pale, thin, invalid, the portly country gentleman whom I had known.

The motive for his letter was soon explained. The executorial accounts, whose terrible disarrangement I had aided, five years before, in remedying, still hung over the dying man's head, like a nightmare. He could not die, he said, with the thought in his mind, that any one might attribute this disorder to intentional maladministration—"to fraud, it might be."

And at the word "fraud," his wan cheek became crimson.

"My own affairs, Mr. Cleave," he continued, "are, I find, in a most unhappy condition. I have been far too negligent; and now, on my death-bed, for such it will prove, I discover, for the first time, that I am well-nigh a ruined man!"

He spoke with wild energy as he went on. I, in vain, attempted to impress upon him, the danger of exciting himself.

"I must explain everything, and in my own way," he said, with burning cheeks, "for I look to you to extricate me. I have appointed you, Mr. Cleave, my chief executor; but, above all, I rely upon you, I adjure you, to protect my good name in those horrible accounts, which you once helped to arrange, but which haunt me day and night like the ghost of a murdered man!"

The insane agitation of the speaker increased, in spite of all which I could say. It led him to make me a singular revelation—to speak upon a subject which I had never even dreamed of. His pride and caution seemed wholly to have deserted him; and he continued as follows:

"You are surprised, Sir, that I should thus call upon you. You are young. But I know very well what I am doing. Your rank in your profession is sufficient guaranty that you are competent to perform the trust—my knowledge of your character is correct enough to induce me not to hesitate. There is another tie between us. Do you suspect its nature? I loved and would have married your mother. She was poor—I was equally poor—I was dazzled by wealth, and was miserably happy when your mother's pride made her refuse my suit. I married—I have not been happy. But enough. I should never have spoken of this—never—but I am dying! As you are faithful and true, St. George Cleave, let my good name and Annie's be untarnished!"

There the interview ended. The doctor came in, and I retired to reflect upon the singular communication which had been made to me. On the same evening, I accepted all the trusts confided to me. In a week the sick gentleman was sleeping with his fathers. I held his hand when he died.

I shall not describe the grief and suffering of every one. I shall not trust myself, especially, to speak of Annie. Her agony was almost destructive to her health—and every throb which shook her frame, shook mine as well. The sight of her face had revived, in an instant, all the love of the past, if indeed it had ever slept. I loved her now, passionately, profoundly. As I thought that I might win her love in return, I thrilled with a vague delight.

Well, let me not spin out my story. The result of my examination of Mr. Barrington's affairs, was saddening in the extreme. He was quite ruined. Neglect and extravagant living, with security debts, had mortgaged his entire property. When it was settled, and the hall was sold, his widow and daughter had just enough to live upon comfortably—scarcely so much. They gladly embraced my suggestion to remove to a small cottage near our own, in town, and there they now live—you may see the low roof through the window.

I am glad to say that my reëxamination of the executorial accounts, which had so troubled the poor dying gentleman, proved his fears quite unfounded. There was mere disorder—no grounds for "exception." I told as much to Annie, who alone knew all; and her smile, inexpressibly sweet and filled with thanks, was my sole executorial "commission."

VII.

I have just been discarded by Annie.

Let me endeavor to collect my thoughts and recall what she said to me. My head is troubled to-day—it is strange what a want of self-control I have! I thought I was strong—and I am weaker than a child.

I told her that I loved her—had loved her for years—that she was dearer, far, to me than all on earth beside my mother. And she answered me—agitated, but perfectly resolved:

"I cannot marry you, Mr. Cleave."

A long pause followed, in which she evidently labored with great distress—then she continued:

"I will frankly and faithfully say why I cannot. I know all—I know your feelings for me once. You went away because you were poor, and you thought I was rich. Shall I be less strong than yourself? I am poor now; I do not regret it, except—pardon me, sir, I am confused—I meant to say, that you are now the richer. It humbles me to speak of this—why did you not"—

There she stopped, blushing and trembling.

"Why did I not? Oh! do not stop there, I pray you."

She replied to my words in a broken and agitated voice:

"I cannot finish. I was thinking of—of—the day when I mended your coat!"

And a smile broke through the tears in her eyes, as she gazed timidly at me. I shall not prolong the account of our interview. She soon left me, resolute to the last; and I came away, perfectly miserable.

What shall I do? I cannot live without her. My life would be a miserable mockery. To see her there near me, at the window, in the street; to see her tresses in the sunlight, her little slipper as it flits through the flower-enveloped gate; to feel that she is near me, but lost to me! Never could I endure it! But what can I do? Is there anything that can move her?

—Ah! that may! Let me try it. Oh, fortunate accident. To-morrow, or very soon—very soon!

VIII.

A week after my rejection, I went up to my chamber, and drew from the depths of my wardrobe, the old coat which Annie had mended. I had promised her to preserve it. I had kept my promise. Yes, there it was, just as I had worn it at the hall—my shabby old coat of five years ago! I put it on, smiling, and surveyed myself in a mirror. It was strangely old-fashioned; but I did not think of that. I seemed to have returned, all at once, to the past; its atmosphere embraced me; all its flowers bloomed gaily before my eyes.

I looked at the hole in the elbow. There were Annie's stitches—her fingers had clasped the worn, decayed cloth—the old garment had rested on her arm!

I think I must have gazed at the coat for an hour, motionless in the sunlight, and thinking of old days. Then I aroused myself, suddenly, put on my hat, and, with a beating heart, went to ask if Annie remembered.

I shall not relate the details of our interview. She remembered! Oh, word so sweet or so filled with sadness! with a world of sorrow or delight in its sound! She remembered—and her heart could resist no longer. She remembered the poor youth who had loved her so dearly—whom she, too, had loved in the far away past. She remembered the days when her father was well and happy—when his kind voice greeted me, and his smile gave me friendly welcome. She remembered the old days, with their flowers and sunshine—the old hall, and the lawn, and the singing birds. Can you wonder that her soft, tender bosom throbbed, that her heart was "melted in her breast?"

So she plighted me her troth—the dream and joy of my youth. We shall very soon be married. The ship which I sent from the shore long ago has come again to port, with a grander treasure than the earth holds beside—it is the precious, young head which reclined upon my heart!

—And again I can say, as I said long ago: "how good a thing it is to live!"