Front matter (continued 3)

"Assuredly; only"—he reflected a moment—"only your extreme course in regard to color prejudice would make the truth a hundredfold harder to bear should she discover it."

"But she shall not discover it. In two weeks she will be married to this young Northerner, her life merged into his, her very name lost. Is it right, is it cheating him?"

"If you cannot tell her, then you must not tell him, for it would only be to raise a barrier of secrecy between them."

"Tell me there is no dishonesty, no sin in it, and my heart will be at rest."

"According to my understanding, Agnese Capelle, there is none, but the highest human understanding is at best but poor authority. You have rescued this child from the common fate of her class, elevated her, thrown around her love, protection, the honor of a good name. You save her from the consequences of her father's sin. Be contented with your work. For marriage will be the crowning of it, and if she is noble, neither origin nor birth can make her less precious to her husband. I only wish there were more women like you in this country."

She drew a long breath of relief, but humbly said:

"Do not credit me with being a humanitarian. It was simply for love of her I did it all, and lately I have craved your blessing on it, Father Vincent, for I have developed the heart-disease hereditary in my family, and look any hour to be called hence."

A little longer they talked, and then went away, Mrs. Capelle to seek some repose after the excitement of the interview, and the priest to stroll about the grounds in prayer or meditation.

When the last sound of their footsteps and voices died away, the curtains were drawn aside, and Madeline came out of her retreat. She looked wan and ghastly, and groped her way across the room and up to her own apartment as though stricken with sudden blindness.

She closed and locked the door, then flung herself prone upon the floor. She felt like writhing and screaming aloud instead of lying there like a senseless log, only her tongue seemed paralyzed, her body numbed. And yet she could think—think with burning, agonizing intensity. Could it be true, or only a hideous nightmare out of which she would presently wake? Her mother a quadroon, her grandmother a slave! She wondered that the very thought of it did not kill her. Her name, her pride, everything that she had cherished, had been torn from her, and she—she had been hurled down into a black abyss where she must grovel and suffer until death set her free. Strange visions seemed to come before her out of the remote past—visions of African jungles, of black, half-naked savages borne across the seas to be bought and sold, to pine and fret in bondage, longing for the freedom which never came to them.

They were her ancestors; their blood, degraded by generations of slavery, flowed in her veins. Her education, her refinement, her prejudices would only be instruments of torture now, with that secret consciousness of shame and degradation underlying them. It was as cruel, as complete, as if it had been planned with Machiavellian art to this ending; and through the confused misery of her thoughts ran a sensation of pity for her mother, that she had so unconsciously spoiled her work. Presently the stunned feeling passed, and she rose to her feet again, and walked about the room. On the bed and chairs were strewed the pretty things belonging to her wedding outfit. Half unconsciously she folded and put them away. She would not need them now. Once she went to the mirror, and, leaning close to it, looked at herself, seeking for traces of that race she had been taught to regard as the lowest on earth. Did that soft fullness of lip, that crisp wave in her hair, that velvety, opaque skin come from her mother? A momentary savage rage thrilled her. She struck the glass so fierce a blow with her closed hand that it cracked from bottom to top. Then her eyes fell on her lover's picture, placed in an open velvet frame, and she paled and shuddered. She did not touch it, though a hundred times it had been pressed to heart and lip, but gazed at it with that intense parting look we give the dead before they are hidden forever from us; then she leaned over the bureau, her head bowed upon her folded arms.

The afternoon passed; twilight crept into the room. Faint sounds of life came up from the lower part of the house; the tea-bell rang; at last some one came slowly, heavily up the stairs, shuffled across the hall, and knocked on her door.

"Miss Mad'line, Miss Mad'line." She opened the door, and found Aunt Dilsey standing there, a big, coffee-colored mulatto woman, panting from the exertion of mounting the stairs, the wrinkles in her fat neck filled with little streams of perspiration. "Miss Agnese an' de priest man air waitin' fo' yo' to come down to supper, honey, an' Miss Agnese say hurry, de cakes gwine git cold," she said in a full rich voice; but Madeline only caught her by the shoulder, and stared at her thick brown skin, her coarse crinkled hair, her protruding lips, and broad figure. So her grandmother might have looked. "Fo' mercy's sake, honey, what's de matter? Air yo' sick?" cried Aunt Dilsey in a frightened, anxious tone; but the girl only turned from her, and fell upon the bed with a moan of despair.

She heard the old negress hurrying downstairs, and then her mother's light swift steps, and tried to compose herself.

"My darling, what is the matter?" cried Mrs. Capelle, bending tenderly, anxiously over her.

"It is only a—a—headache," said Madeline, glad that the twilight hid her face from those loving, searching eyes.

"Are you sure? Dilsey frightened me so."

"Dilsey is a foolish old creature."

Mrs. Capelle felt of her hands, her face.

"You are feverish. You were in the hot sun too much this afternoon."

"Yes; that was it—the sun. Don't be anxious, mama. It is nothing. Go back to Father Vincent, and I'll sleep, and be well to-morrow."

"But I do not like to leave you."

"You must, chérie. Remember your guest."

"Yes, yes; so I must. I will come up again presently."

She stooped to arrange a pillow, and to kiss her, and Madeline raised herself up, threw her arms around her.

"My own good, sweet mama, my dear, lovely one!" she murmured. "You do everything for my comfort and happiness. You would not hurt me for the world, would you?"

"Hurt you, sweet?"

"I know you would not. I—I like to tease you a little. Kiss me good-night, and go. Poor mama!" she murmured under her breath, as they held each other, in a love no bond of flesh and blood could have made stronger.

"How can I tell her that I know! How can I!" Madeline moaned when left again alone.

But she did not have that cruel task, for sometime during that night, while she turned wakefully on her bed, or paced softly about the room, Agnese Capelle received the summons she had been so long expecting. Next morning only her fragile body lay between the white sheets of her bed, the life, the spirit gone.

Madeline was strangely calm through all the excitement and confusion following, and went herself to select a sunny open spot in the neglected little cemetery for her mother's grave.

"She loved sunshine," she said to Everett and Father Vincent, "and she wished to be buried here."

She preserved the same stony quiet through the funeral and burial, and friends commented and wondered, and Roger watched her anxiously. He felt an indefinable change in her, but attributed it to the shock of her mother's sudden death. Father Vincent studied him with keen eyes, but could find no fault. He was a manly man, and a tender, considerate lover.

It was the third evening after her mother's burial that Madeline called Father Vincent into the little study adjoining the parlor. The New Orleans lawyer had come up, held a private interview with her, and had gone away again, and she had sent off her wedding trousseau to a young girl in a distant town, and certain things belonging to her mother she had carefully collected and put together. So much Aunt Dilsey, the priest, and a kind old lady who proposed to stay with her a few days knew; but she offered no explanation, and gave no clue to her plans for the future.

"She acts for all the world like she didn't expect to get married, herself," the old lady confided to a friend or two. "I can't understand what she intends to do."

Father Vincent felt some curiosity too, and went into the little room rather eagerly. She sat before her mother's desk with a lot of papers open before her. It came upon him with the force of surprise that she had changed greatly in a few days. Her features were sharpened, her eyes had purplish hollows under them, and the dull black gown she wore only brought out the intense pallor of her face.

"My child, where did you get those papers? You must let me examine them. There are some your mother wished destroyed," said the priest, hastily.

"I know, Father, I know," she said in a dull tone.

"Have you—"

"Read them? No; but I heard all that she told you that day."

"Ah!" he exclaimed, understanding why she looked so changed, and his eyes rested pityingly upon her. A fiery blush burned her throat and face for a moment, leaving her paler than ever when it receded.

"Yes; I know," she said, and clasped her hands together on her lap. "Father, will you tell Mr. Everett?"

"But—"

"I cannot do it; help me, will you?"

It was a piteous appeal, and his heart melted at the sight of her anguished eyes.

"You think he ought to know it?"

"He must, of course," she said, and he felt satisfied that she had not, for a moment even, been tempted to keep the truth from him. "He is in the parlor," she continued after a slight pause; "tell him all, spare nothing," her tensely drawn lips quivering, her hands tightly clenched.

"My child, you take it too hard," laying his hand on her head. "I am grieved for you, but do not let it spoil your peace."

"How can I help it, Father, with the training I have had? I cannot change my beliefs in a day. Oh, you know how my friends would shrink from me if they knew the truth, and I—I cannot blame them. I should do the same. There is no help, no comfort, for me anywhere."

"There is the comfort of the Church, the help of Heaven."

"Ah, yes; I forget—I forget."

"But hear your lover before you decide your future. He has a right to it, remember."

"Tell him, Father, tell him."

He went away, and, turning the light a little lower, she waited. He made the story short, for in a few minutes the door opened again and her lover entered. She rose to meet him, determined to be brave and self-possessed, but that new, bitter sense of shame again overpowered her. She seemed to shrink and shrivel under his tender eyes, and sank down with bowed head. But he knelt by her chair with his arms around her, and drew that proud, averted face against him.

"Dearest, dearest," he whispered, the very tone of his voice carrying to her his sympathy, his unshaken love.

"I thank God that I learned the truth in time," she said faintly.

"In time for what, Madeline?"

"To save you."

He raised her face, forced her to look at him.

"Do you believe my love has changed?"

"It has an element of pity now."

"But pity for your suffering, and not because I hold you less noble. I can take care of myself and you also, my darling. Father Vincent and I agree that it will be best for you to go North, get away from old associations, old ideas; so we'll be married quietly, and leave here at once." He rose, and she stood up also, facing him, looking straight into his eyes.

"Did Father Vincent tell you all? Do you realize just what I am?"

"Yes; you are the woman I love—my promised wife. Can I hold you blamable, dearest, or unlove you simply because—come, Madeline, put all the past behind you, and we will never speak of this again."

"Impossible, Roger. You are generous, and I'm not afraid that you would ever reproach me, but it is not worth while for us to argue the matter. We cannot marry. In my own sight I have been humbled into the dust, and as your wife I should always have a cringing, cowardly feeling of unworthiness. I could not be happy myself, and my misery would only overshadow you. Don't think me unreasonable or lacking in love. Love! It fills all my heart, pervades every atom of my being. I loved you at once—the first moment, I think, that my eyes rested upon you. The prejudices which seemed so foolish, so false, are interwoven, blended with life itself. We, here, call them instincts, holding us apart from the lower order of man, and my education only fostered, developed them to the utmost in me."

"If your mother had only—"

"Don't think hardly of her, my dearest. She is not to blame. She brought me up as she believed best, and implanted the principles and beliefs she thought would be my surest safeguards. As she grew weak and ill the secret burdened her, and for fear that she might be wronging you she sought Father Vincent's advice. How I thanked God that she died without knowing that her work was all undone!" She flung herself again into the chair, and he saw that she was too excited, too overwrought, to be reasoned with.

She looked up at him.

"Had you known my birth, my parentage, from the first, could you have loved me?"

"I do not know," he said candidly; "I only know that I do love you, and that I will not give you up." His face flushed, his eyes kindled. "You must, you shall, be my wife. But we will not talk of it any more to-night: you need rest, and time to recover from the double shock which has come upon you. To-morrow—every day, I shall come, until you learn to look at this as I do. Good-night, Madeline. Think wisely, reasonably, dear."

"I will try; and you will know my decision to-morrow, Roger."

He bent over her, kissed the bright waves of her hair; but she started up, and clasped her arms about him, drawing his lips down to hers in an abandonment of love she had never shown before. Tears rained from her eyes, the stony curves of her mouth melted, and he felt that it was a tacit surrender.

"To-morrow you will listen to me, Madeline," he said with the certainty of conviction.

"Yes; to-morrow," she replied, and turned, weeping, from him.

But when he came next morning Father Vincent met him at the door, while the old lady and Aunt Dilsey hovered in the hall with frightened, excited faces. Fear, vague, indefinite, but chilling, fell upon him. He had spent half the night in thinking and planning; he had felt assured that it needed only time and change of scene to restore Madeline to her former brightness; but even if a cloud should always hang over her, he wished to share its gloom. He could not fully appreciate her position, because he could not look at it from her standpoint. He could understand that it had been a cruel blow to her, but he could not understand how tragical. He felt very hopeful as he walked over to her home, but the face of the priest, those women in the background, startled him.

"What is the matter?" he cried sharply.

"She is gone," said Father Vincent.

"Gone!" he echoed, paling suddenly, and half reeling.

"Yes."

"Where? In God's name, where?"

"That is what we do not know. She must have gone away on the early train this morning."

The blood came back to the young man's face, a hideous fear lifted from his mind.

"You do not think then—"

"No; a Capelle would never seek self-destruction."

Everett stood still and looked about the hall and through the open doors into the silent rooms, yesterday filled with the sweet influence of her presence, to-day empty, desolate, and a terrible sense of loss swept over him. Her words, "You will know my decision to-morrow," came back to his memory with crushing significance.

"Fool, fool that I have been!" he groaned aloud, and the priest took him by the arm and led him into the parlor.

"The women think her mind has been upset by her mother's sudden death. It is well; let all her friends think so. But we must find her, Mr. Everett."

"Yes; I will go at once," said Roger, rousing himself. "It is to hide from me that she has gone away; but I shall find her, I shall certainly find her."

He spoke firmly and quietly, but the task before him proved very hard, for she had left no written message, no clue to her plans or destination.

It was a spring day in the year 1886 that Roger Everett turned aside from the beaten track of the tourist in New Orleans to visit a school in the old quarter of the city—a school maintained by a few New England philanthropists for colored children exclusively. He lost his bearings in the narrow streets among the quaint old-fashioned houses, and stopped to make inquiries at a small building opening on the street. He rapped on the half-closed wooden shutter with his stick, his eyes meanwhile wandering up and down the silent, sunny street, absently noting the scant, picturesque attire of some brown-faced children at play on the sidewalk and the pathetic figure of an old negro sitting on a doorstep. His failure to find Madeline Capelle had left its traces upon his face. Five years had elapsed since her disappearance, and though he had not ceased to look into every woman's face he met, he had given up hope of finding her. A serene-eyed woman in a black gown and cap came to the door, and he instantly recognized the dress as the uniform of some religious order or sisterhood.

"Come in," she said in a gentle, subdued tone.

"I beg your pardon. I merely wished to—"

"It will not be an intrusion. Many have already come to-day to see her, for you know many love her. This way, please," she said, and without waiting for him to speak again, she turned and walked through two rather bare, dusky rooms into a small one opening on a green, magnolia-shaded court. He followed her, puzzled, but with a touch of curiosity, wondering how he should explain himself; but the moment he crossed the threshold he understood the mistake that she had made, for in the centre of the room stood a white-draped bier, and through the unfolded linen he could trace the outline of a rigid human form.

"See the flowers," his conductress whispered, pointing to the masses of cape jasmines, roses, and smaller flowers. "Sister Christiana loved them, but she loved all things beautiful and good. They were brought this morning by negroes she has been kind to. To teach, to elevate, and to nurse them has been her mission. No service seemed too humble, no duty too hard for her. She did indeed 'belong to Christ.'"

Her mild eyes kindled, her hand instinctively sought the cross at her side.

"She died calmly and with joy, and knew us until the last moment."

He followed her across the room, treading softly, as we always do in the presence of death. With reverent hand she laid aside the shielding linen, and he leaned forward—the past once more a vivid reality and not a memory, not a dream vanishing from him, for the face he looked down upon was the face of Madeline Capelle.

AN OLD-TIME LOVE STORY.

The Galers lived on the summit of a long hill sloping down to the brink of the Chattahoochee River, and nearly opposite the small town of Roswell. Above the house and below it stretched the fertile acres of a fine plantation worked by many slaves; for old Jabez Galer was rich in land and negroes, besides owning a large interest in a wool factory over the river. Roswell was really the most important manufacturing town in Georgia before the War, though it was scattered so picturesquely over the river hills with no railroad market nearer than Atlanta.

But it does not enter the province of this short sketch to give a history of the old town with its factories scattered along short canals, fed from the river, its traditions reaching back into the early days of the settling of Georgia—its "lover's leap" on the brink of a wide creek, a cliff of gray rocks with lovely maidenhair ferns growing thickly around its base—but of the Galers living across the river from it in the midst of their small kingdom, surrounded by their black retainers, and of an old love story.

The house was big and white and squarely built, with the piazzas—without which no Southern house would have seemed complete—wide halls and large rooms belonging to a certain period of colonial architecture. The lower hall was ornamented with the antlers of a stag or two, some leopard-skin rugs, and with a stuffed owl perched above the door. The rooms wrere sparely furnished after the stiff fashion of the day, but linen closets and clothes-presses were full and overflowing; for there wrere swift spinners and skillful weavers among the negro women on the place, and a careful mistress to look after them. In the rear of the main dwelling were the negro quarters, and off at one side the barns and stables. The grassy lawn was shaded with fine old oaks and mimosa trees. In the back yard the little negroes disported, and a dozen hounds had their kennels; for Mr. Jabez Galer was fond of riding forth over the river hills in the early dawn, with dogs and gun and hunting-horn. His family consisted of himself, his meek, gentle sister, Miss Jane, and his grand-daughter, fair Pamela.

Mr. Jabez Galer was a character in his day and generation. He was impulsive and could be generous, but had a most tyrannical will and a violent temper. He ruled his household like an autocrat. There was something domineering in his very tread, the roll of his keen eye, the fit of the white linen arraying his portly person. He was a rather fine-looking old man, gray-haired and blue-eyed, and with evidences of good living in every line of his clean-shaven face. No man could be more genial than he when in a good humor, or appreciate a story or a joke more keenly; and he was kind to his negroes. True, they did not dare disobey him without expecting and receiving punishment, and they worked hard; but they were well clothed, housed and fed, and enjoyed their regular holidays and merrymakings.

Mr. Galer's doors were always open to the wandering prospector, the trader, the itinerant preacher, or, indeed, to any one who claimed his hospitality and seemed worthy of it, and his sister and granddaughter were free to entertain or be entertained by the society of Roswell; but his guests sometimes came in contact with his imperious will or his temper. To show what manner of man he was one experience is herein given:

A Kentucky horse-trader stopped at the house one night, and long after the other members of the family had retired he sat in the dining-room with his host drinking wine and telling stories. They both grew somewhat excited as the mellow vintage warmed their fancies. They told adventures of youthful gallantry. Mr. Galer had, in his time, figured prominently in society as a beau, dancing and paying compliments; and the Kentuckian admitted that he had also once felt proud of his nimble-footedness in treading the cotillon. He was invited to give an example of his skill, but declined. His host insisted, but he laughed contemptuously at the idea. Old Jabez Galer's choler rose. He went to the dining-room door and shouted for his own special servant, Elbert.

"Elbert, hey there! Elbert, you rascal, bring down your fiddle!"

An old negro man stumbled down the back stairway and into the room, rubbing open his sleepy eyes, a much abused and battered violin under his arm. He looked older than his master, his woolly head quite white, a complex tracery of wrinkles covering his shrewd black face; but he seemed active and strong, and betrayed not the slightest surprise at the midnight summons.

"Mars Galer up tu some mischief, sho'," he muttered, sitting down, with his feet drawn up under him, and beginning to tune the violin. He gave a few preparatory scrapes across the strings, and then began to play the old inspiring tunes his dusky people had danced to round many a brightly blazing bonfire, or in the light of the full moon. Mr. Galer turned the key in the door, reached down the gun resting in a rack above it, and deliberately leveled it at his astonished guest.

"Now dance, or I'll put a bullet through your head."

The Kentuckian was not a coward, but he had no weapon—how he longed for the pistols in his saddle-bags!—and realized that his host might do him mischief if not humored.

It was a curious scene, an extremely ludicrous one. The candles, set in tall, brass candlesticks, sputtered and flared, the tallow melting down in a little gutter on one side. They cast only an uncertain, flickering light over the room, and the tall, awkward Kentuckian, in creaking boots, shuffled over the bare floor until the house fairly trembled, and Miss Jane turned on her high feather bed in a chamber above, wondering what unseemly sport could be going on. But the victim of Mr. Galer's whims was a wary man and given to dissimulation when occasion required. He appeared to find such humor in the situation that his host was thrown entirely off guard and allowed the gun to rest negligently on the table in front of him. In a twinkling it was snatched from his loosened grasp, and the Kentuckian stood between him and the door.

"Now you try your skill awhile, Mr. Galer, or you may play best man at the funeral," he said, grimly.

It was a neat revenge, and instead of trying to rouse the household to his protection Mr. Galer promptly began to keep time to the music with slow, old-fashioned steps. But he had lost the lightness and skill of his youth, and, soon exhausted, had to beg for mercy. Elbert's eyes twinkled in secret glee over his master's discomfiture, and he played a livelier strain than ever. Mr. Galer and the trader parted the next morning in the friendliest manner, and he told the story of his defeat with the keenest appreciation.

With such a disposition to override all opposition to his wishes and desires, it is not to be supposed that his family had an easy life of it when wills clashed. It was only by stratagem that they could ever outwit him; and it was by stratagem that Pamela married the man she loved. It happened in this wise:

Adjoining Mr. Galer's plantation was one even larger and richer, belonging to Mr. Josiah Williamson, a man who had abundance of money, and was amply able to take life easy. He went away annually on a trip to the principal Northern cities, and even talked of some time going abroad. He and old Jabez Galer were warm friends, and it had long been understood between them that Pamela should become Mrs. Josiah Williamson when she arrived at a suitable age. At the date of this story she had reached eighteen, and her grandfather's plans for her future began to take active shape. One morning he stamped into the hall, threw his hat and riding-whip on a table, shouting in thundering tones:

"Permely! Per*me*ly! hey, Perme*lee!*"

The little negroes rolling in the sand in the back yard scampered away behind the kitchen, Miss Jane dropped the fine linen she was mending in the dining-room, and Elbert muttered over a half-polished boot: "Mars Jabe in one o' his tantrums 'g'in, ez I live."

"What is it, grandpa?" inquired a youthful voice from the upper hall, and Pamela stepped lightly down the broad, shallow stairs.

"Come here to me," he said, but in a softer tone; for she held the tenderest place in his heart; and she was fair enough to disarm even greater anger than his. She was a tall young person, with a certain charming dignity of carriage, a rather pale but lovely face, fine, pale brown hair, and steel-gray eyes. There was no vivid coloring about her, though plenty of character lay under that soft, subdued beauty. She was gowned in thin muslin befitting the summer day, with a narrow lace collar turned down around her slender neck. Mr. Galer laid his hands heavily on her shoulders, looking sternly into her clear eyes.

"What's this I hear about you and Sim Black?"

She looked down, and the whiteness of her face and throat turned to rose.

"I would hang my head," giving her a slight shake. "What do you suppose that young beggar had the impudence to do this morning when I went over to Roswell? to ask me for you—you—old Jabez Galer's grand-daughter; declared that he had always loved you, and that it was with your consent he came to me."

"Yes sir," she said, in a low tone, tracing a seam in the floor with the toe of her neat little shoe.

He stamped the floor. "Well, he'll not get you, do you hear? Do you think I raised you, educated you, to marry a miserable little lawyer without a rood of land or a nigger to his name? No, sirrah!"

"I thought you always intended me to be happy, sir," paling again before his wrath, but firm.

"So I do, but you'll be happy in my way, marry the man I have selected for you, and his name is—Josiah Williamson."

She stared at him in a disconcertingly amazed, shocked way.

"Why, grandpa!"

"What's the matter, now?"

"He's as old as you are."

"He is not a year older than your aunt Jane."

"And I love Sim, dear grandpa," she pleaded.

"Don't you dare to think of him again! Williamson—"

"I will certainly not think of him," with a flash of her eyes.

"I have forbidden Black ever coming here again, and I'll wear him out with a cowhide if I ever hear of your speaking to him."

"Brother, brother," remonstrated Miss Jane's exasperatingly gentle voice from the dining-room door, her small person half hidden in an armful of mending.

"Don't 'brother' me! What have you been doing, not to look after this girl? But women are contrary creatures, all of them, and enough to drive a man distracted with their piety and sentimental foolishness!"

He went out upon the piazza, and sat down to let his vexation cool, while Pamela was folded in her grandaunt's comforting little arms, to the detriment of the linen, which received a copious shower of tears. But if she wept she was also determined. As old Elbert had once shrewdly said:

"Miss Pamely's er Galer, too, en got de Galer will, en de Galer temper, en things gwinter fly to pieces when she en ole Mars come tugether."

Mr. Galer sat on the piazza; but he waxed wroth every time he thought of young Black's presumption. Stretching afar before his eyes were his own cotton-fields, girdled on one side by the winding curves of the Chattahoochee, and on the other by deep, green forests, and through the palpitant air of the summer noon floated a field song, chanted by the joyous mellow voices of his slaves. His heart swelled with the pride of riches. Sim Black, indeed! when Pamela could have the pick and choice of the country, by right of her beauty and her dowry. What if the young lawyer did possess a brilliant mind and an eloquent tongue, and culture far beyond the average man in that region? he had sprung from obscure origin, and his future honors were as yet but empty promises, while Josiah Williamson's wealth and position were solid facts.

That afternoon, as Pamela sat in her room bending listlessly over some gay patchwork, Mammy Susannah came in, and from under the kerchief folded across her bosom, drew a little note.

"Honey, Elbert say, fo' de lub o' de Lawd not tu let old Mars know 'e fetch dis."

Pamela sprang up, flushing and trembling, to receive her first love-letter. It was brief:

"Dearest:—As your grandfather has forbidden me to enter his house again, I shall walk by the althea hedge in your garden this evening where, I pray you, meet me.

"Your devoted Lover,

"JOHN SIMPSON BLACK."

Mr. Josiah Williamson came a-wooing that evening just as twilight fell and the whippoorwill began his plaintive serenade. The negroes understood his errand, from the groom, who put up his horse, to the pickaninny peeping around the corner of the house; and there were nods and winks exchanged as he came nimbly up the piazza steps arrayed in his finest broadcloth and newest, tightest neck-stock.

He and Mr. Galer sat on the piazza and chatted awhile of plantation affairs, of the latest news from Washington, and of a public sale of slaves which had recently occurred in Roswell; and Miss Jane sat in the candle-lit parlor, knitting; but Pamela had disappeared.

"Can I—ahem—speak to Miss Permely, this evening?" Mr. Williamson at last inquired. "Your note led me to hope so."

"Yes; I want that matter settled. I'll see if she's with her aunt."

But Miss Jane mused solitarily over the stocking heel, a great white winged moth circling about her meek head or diving ever and anon toward the flame of the candle.

"Where is Permely?" Mr. Galer inquired, frowning.

She dropped one of the long, shining needles with a clinking sound, and stooped to grope around the edge of her skirts for it.

"Why, Jabez, I don't know; I thought—"

"Leave your thoughts out of the question, Jane, and go call her. She is hiding somewhere about the house."

Miss Jane stood up and faced him, nerved to a fleeting courage.

"Brother, don't try to force the child into a loveless marriage. Think how young she is; think—"

"Do as I tell you, Jane; I know what is best for Permely;" and she silently obeyed.

But Mammy Susannah, hovering in the shadow of the stairway, had already slipped out into the garden. It was a beauty's bower. The rising moon shone on beds of tulip and mignonette, on rows of flaunting hollyhocks, blue larkspur and yellow marigolds, on sweet pinks standing thickly in the border of the walks, and roses bending earthward under the weight of their own rich bloom and fragrance; its silvered light fell on the althea hedge with its white and purple flowers, and on Pamela and her lover slowly pacing the walk beyond.

"Miss Pemely, honey!" Susannah called, low and cautiously.

She hurriedly withdrew her hand from Sim's clasp.

"I must go; grandpa wants me."

But he threw his arms about her to detain her a moment longer, loth to part from her so quickly. Their two young faces were almost on a level; for Black was short and dark, though strongly built, and square-shouldered, with keen black eyes, and a handsome, clean-shaven face. His eyes were alight with love's soft fire as they rested on her face.

"I cannot let you go so soon, beloved," he protested, tenderly.

"Ah, but think of grandpa's anger, should he find you here."

"It would take a stout heart to face it, I acknowledge," he said laughing. Then he took her face between his hands: "You'll not let them take you from me, Pamela?"

"Indeed I will not, Sim."

Her sweet eyes and mouth were kissed, and then Black vaulted over the low garden fence, while she hastened to the house, her light skirts brushing the tell-tale dew from flower and seeded grass, her fine, soft hair hanging damply around her throat and delicate ears.

It is not the purpose of this chronicle to give a minute account of Mr. Josiah Williamson's wooing, nor of its failure. Mr. Galer lived in a state of vexation from morning until night. He was nearly beside himself with baffled rage when he found that with characteristic family spirit Pamela declined to be cajoled or coerced into obedience. All his ambitious plans threatened a total collapse; and that the obstinacy of a slim young girl should be the cause made it all the more aggravating. He thought of a hundred schemes by which he might overcome her contrary spirit, but only one appeared feasible. He chuckled grimly over it, and sent for Mr. Williamson to unfold his plan to him.

"I'll pretend to give my consent to her marriage with Black, set the day, invite the guests, and then contrive to have Sim detained over in Roswell, put in jail if it's necessary, but let Permely think he's changed his mind. Girls are touchy creatures, and Permely is so proud that she would marry you in a minute rather than not have a wedding at all."

It was not a situation to Mr. Williamson's liking. He wanted no unwilling bride; and Pamela had shown her aversion for him so plainly that he was entirely disenchanted. But he dared not sav so. Like all of Mr. Galer's friends, he stood in wholesome fear of that gentleman's temper.

"Well, what do you say?" his friend impatiently demanded.

"It seems a little—er—don't you think—"

"Oh, if you don't wish to marry my grand-daughter, pray say so."

"But I do, I do," said Mr. Williamson, feeling himself a miserable coward for not protesting against deceiving the girl.

When he went away it was with the understanding that the whole matter must be kept a secret between them. But as he rode dejectedly around the corner of the garden, who should step out in front of him but Miss Jane Galer, such a sparkle of indignation in her eyes, such a flush on her delicate face, that she looked positively young and pretty. He stared at her, and she, without so much as a polite good-morning, said:

"I want to know, Josiah Williamson, if you are not ashamed of yourself for plotting against a young girl's happiness?"

"Blame your brother, Miss Jane—blame your brother," he said, in self-defense, having the grace to look very much ashamed of himself, though.

"You know he'd almost sell his own soul for the privilege of having his way; but you—I think you ought to have more pride than to want to marry Permely through fraud. What peace or pleasure do you think there would be in it?"

"Not much for me, I'll allow," he said, flicking the willow switch he carried at the flies swarming about his horse's head. "Miss Permely hasn't shown her best temper to me lately, and I don't know as I care to marry her at all. I want somebody that'll take life quietly and gently."

He looked down again at Miss Jane. She smoothed out her black silk apron, still trembling with indignation.

"No better-tempered girl lives than Permely Galer; but think of the sore trial of being pestered all the time about marrying one man while she is in love with another. I heard all that brother Jabez said to you, and if you don't give up the idea of this marriage I'll tell Permely and Sim, and, more than that, I'll do all I can to help them if they want to run away."

Mr. Williamson was fascinated by her unexpected fire and spirit.

"I didn't know you were so spunky, Jane," he said, admiringly. "We used to go to school together, do you remember?"

"Why yes," she replied, surprised at the turn of his thoughts.

"You were a gentle little thing, but you had temper enough then. You look, for all the world, as you did the day Eben Sanders gave me such a thrashing."

She smiled faintly at the recollection. There were others hidden deep in her heart. Nobody knew that in those school days she had cherished many romantic fancies about Josiah Williamson, or what a blow it was to her when he went off and married a girl from another settlement. She had been on friendly terms with his wife, and had so far overcome her own feelings as to feel deeply, sincerely grieved when she died. Mr. Williamson dismounted and stood at her side.

"I don't know as I'd tell Jabez I overheard his plans if I were you. Maybe we can fix up the matter without that," he said, persuasively.

"I cannot have Permely cheated out of her happiness," she said.

"She shall not be cheated, I promise you."

But apparently his promise amounted to very little, as Mr. Galer went on maturing his plans, inviting young Black to his house, and sending away to Atlanta for Pamela's wedding outfit. His conscience smote him for his duplicity when the girl rapturously thanked him for his goodness; he wondered what she would say when she discovered the trick played upon her.

"Pshaw! she'll be glad enough for it when she comes to her senses. Women are never sane when they fancy they are in love."

Mr. Williamson behaved in the most discreet and admirable manner, showing only the interest of a familiar, elderly friend in Pamela's approaching marriage; but Miss Jane went about in a nervous, half-terrified way that attracted even her brother's attention.

"Any one would suppose that you were to be married, too!" he exclaimed one day.

"Oh, Jabez!" she gasped, and fled from his presence, while he contemptuously muttered: "What idiots women are!"

The morning of the wedding-day dawned at last; and while the dew still hung heavy upon grass and flowers, Pamela declared that she must run over to Roswell for a piece of white ribbon. Mr. Galer frowned a little as he saw her hasten away in a crisp, white gown and a new calash, fair as the morning itself; and he grumblingly wondered why he could not have attended to the errand himself, unwilling to let her leave the place until she was safely married. Mammy Susannah accompanied her, and the two came back in a short time, Pamela flushed and trembling with an inward glow of happiness. She ran to her grandfather and threw her arms about his neck for a moment, the little package of ribbon unrolling itself over his waistcoat; then she embraced and kissed Miss Jane, who seemed no less agitated than she.

A great feast was spread that evening, and the wedding guests poured in until the crowd overflowed from the parlor into the great wide hall. Mr. Galer was a genial host, and even while he braced himself for the inevitable scene with Pamela when Sim failed to appear—and he had arranged with the town marshal that the young man should be detained—he moved about among the guests talking in his most agreeable manner. It was a little early, but the minister had already placed himself in position for the ceremony. Mr. Galer laughed jovially.

"Plenty of time—plenty of time yet," he exclaimed. "Young folks are never prompt;" but even as he spoke silence fell upon the company, as through the doorway and down the room walked Mr. Josiah Williamson. But who was it leaning upon his arm, her gray silk gown rustling softly, her frightened face alternately flushing and paling like a girl's, her meek eyes cast down? Mr. Galer fell back, fumbling for his glasses, doubting the evidence of his natural vision. Could it be—could it be—yes, it was Miss Jane. Then he saw Sim Black standing boldly in the doorway with Pamela at his side, and the sight restored his speech and motion and he strode across the floor to them, just as the minister concluded the brief ceremony uniting the elderly couple, and laid his hand on the girl's shoulder.

"I can at least have my say about this part of the wedding."

But Sim clasped her hand in his, his black eyes, every feature of his handsome, strong young face betraying his joy and triumph.

"You are too late, sir; she is my wife."

"We were married in Roswell this morning. Forgive us, grandpa," said Pamela.

When he realized that he had been the one cheated, outwitted, his anger knew no bounds. He refused to listen to explanation or excuse, but turned everybody out of the house, gave the wedding supper to the negroes, and shut himself into his own room. But he had been fairly beaten at his own game, and in time he came to appreciate it, and to look with pride on Sim Black's career, while he and Josiah Williamson ended their years in brotherly love and peace.

HOW THE QUARREL ENDED.

When old Killus Hurd dismounted from his horse before the Hardings' front gate one spring day, it was not to make a neighborly visit. The flash of his eyes, the set of his mouth, boded no good and mild temper. He was a strong, vigorous-looking man for his years, and larger than the average mountaineer. He walked erect, his brown jeans and homespun clothing fitting loosely, his gray hair falling from under a well-worn broad-brimmed hat to his shoulders.

The Hardings lived on a settlement road at the foot of Bush Mountain, in a weather-beaten old log-house, shaded by a fine chestnut-oak, and a towering spruce pine. The widow Harding sat out on the low piazza shelling seed corn into a small splint basket, and she stared at the approaching visitor with surprise and displeasure. She was a middle-aged woman, but looked older, with dust-colored hair, sallow, sunken features, and faded blue eyes. Mrs. Long, a neighbor who had dropped in to borrow some dye-stuff and to beg a few garden seed, sat near her, rubbing snuff, and retailing the latest gossip circulating through the settlement. At the sight of Mr. Hurd she paused in astonishment.

"Lizy Ann Harding, thar comes Killus Hurd, ez I live!"

"I'm a-seein' him," said Mrs. Harding, her fingers trembling over the yellow corn.

"Good-mornin', Mis' Harding; hope you air well as you wanter be, Mis' Long," he said, walking up to the piazza step.

"Will you come in an' take a cheer?" said Mrs. Harding, the laws of hospitality forcing her to be polite even to her enemy.

"Yes, for a minute or two, Mis' Harding," he replied, and sat down opposite her, resting his hat on his knees.

Mrs. Long took a fresh dip of snuff, and hitched her chair a little nearer, expectant and curious. A brief silence fell, but it was simply the stillness forerunning a storm. The shrill voices of the boys at work in the field below the house were distinctly audible, and from the kitchen, at the edge of the back yard, sounded the steady click-clack of a loom, plied by a strong, industrious hand.

A bitter feud existed between the Hurds and the Hardings. It dated back to the days when Killus Hurd and Sam Harding were young, and sprang from a dispute over some gold diggings. Unfilled trenches marked the spot where they first quarreled, and as the years seemed to wear the earth away into a deeper chasm, so the break between the two families widened until it passed into history in the settlement. The men were members of the same church, their farms adjoined, their homes were not over a mile apart, but they would not be reconciled. At last death claimed Sam Harding, and a new grave had to be made in the shadow of the "meetin'-house," where the Hurds and the Hardings of a former generation rested side by side in peace.

He had been dead two years, and all outward signs of hostility had ceased; but the elder members of the families had not forgotten. And when Mr. Hurd sat down before Mrs. Harding that morning, her thin cheeks flushed, her faded eyes gathered fire; she had plenty of spirit.

"Mis' Harding, where is that daughter o' your'n?"

The mode of attack confused her for a moment.

"Do you mean Sarah Betsy?"

"Yes, I mean Sarah Betsy."

"She's in the kitchen a-weavin'."

"Yes; but where is she when outen your sight?"

"What's that to you, Mister Hurd?" straightening up, and looking unflinchingly at him.

"Mebby you'll 'low it's a good deal when I tell you she's a-goin' to meetin' with John, an' a-seein' him at singin's an' frolics an' such. It's got to be stopped, Mis' Harding. God-a-mighty knows John's been raised as he orter be, an' he ain't a-goin' to spile it all by keepin' comp'ny with a Harding."

He stamped on the floor in mingled grief and rage, and Mrs. Long moved her chair back a few inches. The widow Harding did not move, but a curious tightness in her throat held her speechless for a moment. Could it indeed be true Sarah Betsy had so deceived her? She would not believe it.

"Mister Hurd, do you s'pose I'd 'low Sarah Betsy to keep comp'ny with John?" she said, clearing her throat as she talked. "Sez Harding to me when he lay a-dyin': 'I'm sorry to leave you, Lizy Ann, but it ain't to be helped, fer it's the Almighty's will. Take keer o' the chillun an' do the best you can for 'em;' an' now, ruther than see Sarah Betsy a-throwin' herself away on a son o' your'n I'd be willin' to lay her down 'longside her pa." Her voice trembled and softened. "She's always been a good obejent child, an' I ain't afraid o' trustin' her."

"But ain't I been told p'intedly that they are courtin' on the sly, and didn't John 'low to me this mornin' hisself that he'd marry Sarah Betsy if he lived? Call her and we'll hear what she sez."

"To be sure," murmured Mrs. Long, while Mrs. Harding raised her voice in a shrill call:

"Sarah Betsy! Sarah Bet-see!"

She came quickly from the kitchen and across the yard to the narrow entry leading to the piazza, a rift of wind blowing her short dark hair about her brow and white neck. Her face was sunburned and slightly freckled, though smooth and fresh as a nineteen-year-old face should be. Some day age, snuff-dipping and bad diet would probably make her as yellow and shriveled as her mother, but now the potent charm of youth gave her comeliness. Her brown checked homespun dress was neat, and its primitive fashion but served to show the free grace of all her movements.

"Did you call me, Ma?" in a soft, slow voice; then she saw Mr. Hurd and paused.

"Sarah Betsy, Mr. Hurd 'lows John an' you has been a-keepin' comp'ny unbeknownst to us," said her mother, looking seriously at her.

Sarah Betsy cast down her eyes and was silent.

"Jest speak out, Sarah Betsy," said Mr. Hurd, grimly; "your ma don't 'pear to believe me."

"No; for I 'lowed that you had always been a good child an' wouldn't go ag'in' me."

A quiver of strongly repressed emotion passed over the girl's face.

"Oh, Ma, it couldn't be helped!"

Mrs. Harding rose up, then sat down again, scattering the corn right and left in her agitation, while Mrs. Long shook her head compassionately, and old Killus Hurd looked sternly triumphant.

"Do you mean to tell me Sam Harding's daughter has plum' forgot all her pa's teachin's?" the widow demanded, sternly.

"Ma, it ain't that. I didn't 'low to keer fer John, an' he didn't 'low to keer fer me, but it jest gradually crope up on us," said the girl in a faltering tone, her face deeply red. She looked appealingly from Mr. Hurd to her mother. "Don't turn ag'in' us. We lowed it wusn't right not to tell you, but—"

"It ain't no use to be a-palaverin' with your ma, Sarah Betsy Harding," said Killus Hurd, standing up to his full height, and eying her sternly. "It's me you've got to listen to, an' if there is a spark o' pride or feelin' in your heart, it's bound to be teched. John's the last child, out'n nine, that's been left to me an' his ma; but I'll turn him out o' doors, I'll drive him plum' from the country before he shall marry you, an' the curse o' the Almighty shall foller him."

"It ain't for human creeturs to say who the Almighty's wrath must be turned against," said a mild, rebuking voice; and there at the piazza step stood Sile Ed'ards, the preacher, leaning on his stout stick, his deep-set gray eyes fixed gravely upon the angry neighbors.

A short embarrassed silence followed his unexpected appearance. Sarah Betsy retreated to the doorway, and Mrs. Long laughed awkwardly.

"You must 'a' jes' crope up, Brother Ed'ards," she said, with an attempt at lightness.

"Come in an' take a seat, won't you?" said Mrs. Harding, recovering herself.

"Not to-day, Sister Harding. I'm goin' up on Bush Mount'in, an' I 'low to salt Dave Martin's cattle while there."

Mr. Hurd put on his hat. "I'll jest be goin', Mis' Harding," he said, coldly.

"Won't you stay a minute?" asked the preacher in his mild, slow voice. "If it ain't puttin' nobody out, I'd like to know what's the matter."

The enemies each hastened to give an account of the renewed quarrel, and its cause. Sarah Betsy hung her head, and uttered not a word, though conscious that more than once Sile Ed'ards's deep grave eyes turned toward her. The story seemed to agitate him greatly. He grew pale, and gripped his stick with trembling fingers. He sighed deeply.

"It's a serious question; but it 'pears to me love might solve it. If the Almighty wants to bring you all together ag'in in peace by unitin' John an' Sarah Betsy I don't think you ought to rebel against his will. The Scripters say—"

"It ain't to be argued out on Scripter, Sile," interrupted Mr. Hurd, stubbornly. "I ain't thinkin' hard o' you or blamin' you for feelin' that way; it's nachel, seein' as you've been called to preach; but the Scripters don't fit ever' time."

"They will if we'll only 'low 'm to."

"Mis' Harding an' Sarah Betsy know what I've said."

"I ain't apt to forgit some o' the hard things you've said, Mister Hurd," the widow remarked, in a tone trembling with indignation.

Ed'ards continued to argue and plead with them. The woman he might have softened, but he found himself powerless before hard, stern old Killus Hurd, nursing the concentrated wrath and bitterness of years.

"'Tain't no use, Sile—'tain't no use," he said, moving away to his horse.

"Them that forgives air to be forgiven," said the preacher.

But the old man silently mounted and rode away. Mrs. Long was also ready to depart, being eager to spread the news of the quarrel throughout the settlement.

Ed'ards leaned against the rough sapling post supporting the piazza, with head dejectedly drooped. Mrs. Harding wiped her eyes, and looked furtively at him. "Wouldn't you like to take a cheer an' rest, Brother Ed'ards?" she said, gently. "I know it's sinful to carry on the way we've been a-doin' this mornin', but them Hurds are that mean an' no 'count—" she paused, then hurriedly changed the subject. "I'm most obleeged to take this corn down to the fields."

"Don't let me hinder you then, for I must soon be gittin' on my way. I must ask wisdom 'fore I say any more to you an' Brother Hurd—and I must git strength for myself," he concluded, half under his breath. When left alone, he sat down on the edge of the piazza a few minutes, then walked slowly around the house to the kitchen-door to speak a few words to Sarah Betsy.

She sat on the bench before the loom, but the shuttles lay idle on the beam, while she leaned forward with her face hidden in her hands. So still and deep seemed her dejection he would not disturb her, but stood gazing on her drooped figure with yearning eyes. He had long secretly loved her, but had scarcely realized that he indulged the hope of winning her until he learned that her heart was given to John Hurd. He had been used to self-denial all his life, and after the first confused sensation of misery and loss, strove to put aside his own feelings, and desire only her happiness. He had sought her to speak some comforting words, but finding her in that attitude of silent grief turned away, and left her alone.

He was a slender, undersized man, not more than thirty years old; but mental and physical suffering had drawn deep lines upon his thin, sallow face, and sprinkled threads of gray in his hair. His features would have looked hard and forbidding had they not been softened by the strong, patient endurance religion had brought to him. Throughout the length and breadth of Laurel Cove he was respected and loved. He belonged to the Cove; the encircling chain of mountains marked the boundaries of his life; for he was a hopeless cripple, walking ever with slow, halting steps, and with a staff to aid him. He had never been a lusty, vigorous youth, but one of unusual intelligence and ambition. It was a grievous blow to all his plans of life when a falling tree lamed him. It was a long time before he could walk, even with a crutch, and years before he laid the crutch aside for a stick. Active labor would never again be possible for him; but not liking to be dependent on his neighbors for charity, he plied the trade of a shoe-mender, and while he worked he read and meditated on the Bible—the only book he possessed, except a Webster's Speller and a small arithmetic. It was no wonder that so much reading and solitary thinking on religious themes should inspire him with the desire to preach. His tongue seemed loosened; he rose in "meetin'," and exhorted the people. His eloquence amazed them; his fervor, his deep sincerity impressed even the callous-hearted.

His physical infirmity also appealed to them, and it was not long before he became the pastor of the church in Laurel Cove. He had no more education than his parishioners, so far as text-books were concerned: but his spiritual discernment gave him a power marvelous to them. He did a great deal of good, but one thing he had set his heart on he failed to do; he could not make peace between the Hurds and the Hardings. Both men sat under his teachings in church and listened to his exhortations outside, and both loved him; but they would not be friends with each other. When Sam Harding died Sile tried to influence old Killus Hurd to extend the hand of peace to the widow; but he stubbornly refused, and the preacher gave it up. Now that a fresh quarrel had come he knew not what to say or do, particularly as his own feelings were so deeply involved. He had watched Sarah Betsy bloom into womanhood, delighting in her beauty and even admiring the girlish coquetry of her ways. He had never cherished any definite hopes of marrying her; what woman would like a cripple for a husband? but as long as she did not show any preference among her beaux he was satisfied. Now he knew why she smiled on all alike. It was because she secretly loved John Hurd, and not because she was heart-free. A cruel, jealous pang pierced the heart of the preacher, and a wave of rebellion, savage in its fierceness, swept over him. Why could he not have the love of this girl? It would be only a just compensation for the loss of his physical strength, and with it all he had hoped to be. For a moment he loathed his own body: his spirit panted to rush forth upon the air, freed from all its trammels of flesh. He was not conscious of a temptation to commit suicide; but for an instant the vistas of Heaven seemed to open on his longing eyes, the perplexities and sorrows of life to roll away. Death would be a sweet, a lovely friend to him, not the grisly terror that so many shrank from. He knew every nook and fastness of Bush Mountain, having spent many of the idle days of his boyhood in roaming over it, and now it was a favorite refuge when he wished to think out his sermons, or to wrestle in prayer over some wayward soul gone astray. It was a fair sight to look down on Laurel Cove from the heights, and see its freshly plowed fields and blossoming orchards. The settlers in that fertile region were more industrious and thrifty than their neighbors over the mountains, and they were unusually quiet and law-abiding. Very few moonshiners were to be found in Laurel Cove, and not a distillery. Those were hidden in remote and secret places on the mountains. Let it be said to the enlightenment of Sile Ed'ards, that he was bold enough to preach against the making of illicit whiskey, as against all manner of evil, and many listened and heeded his words. But while he climbed the heights that day, seeking solitude and God, in Laurel Cove things were going very wrong.

It was past the noon hour, and at the Hardings all evidences of the midday meal had been cleaned away. The boys had gone back to the fields, Mrs. Harding raked the garden beds preparatory to seed sowing, and Sarah Betsy had returned to her weaving. She had been through a trying interview with her mother, listening to scolding and reproaches in silence, and promising only one thing; to wait awhile before seeing John Hurd again.

"I can't promise never to see him ag'in," she said, half in tears.

"I don't, fer the life o' me, understan' how you could 'a' tuk such a fancy to him, when there's plenty o' better-lookin', pearter boys for you to 'a' liked," exclaimed Mrs. Harding, despairingly.

"I've never seen the man he couldn't equal," Sarah Betsy murmured; and with a shake of her head Mrs. Harding went away.

Sarah Betsy was thinking it all over as she stood by the loom, putting a quill of thread in the shuttle, when a shadow fell athwart the door and a man's voice, softened and eager, exclaimed:

"Sarah Betsy, Sarah Betsy!"

She turned quickly, troubled joy breaking through the enforced stillness of her face; but she did not speak. The young man boldly entered.

"I 'lowed I must come to see you before I left the Cove," he said, in explanation and apology for his untimely visit.

"Air you goin' away, John?" Sarah Betsy asked, and laid the shuttle down for fear it would slip through her trembling fingers.

"Yes."

"Why? Where do you think o' goin'?"

"Over on Bush Mountain, to work in Aaron Brown's 'stillery," he said, answering her last question first.

"Don't do that!" the girl cried, in dismay. "Oh, please don't do that! Think how the revenue men has watched it; an' once, don't you know? they tuk the Brown boys off to jail."

"I don't keer," he muttered, sullenly. "Pa an' me's had a fallin' out. He lows we'll never marry if he can help it, an' I 'low we will." He crossed the floor and laid his hands gently on her shoulders. "Let 'em do an' say what they will, they can't come between us, honey, can they?" his voice sinking to a softer, tenderer key.

"I didn't 'low they'd keer so much," Sarah Betsy faltered, with downcast eyes, in which hot tears were swimming.

"You er not thinkin' o' goin' back on yer word to me, air you?" Hurd exclaimed, his face darkening.

"We must wait, John—we must wait."

"Yes, tel I can git a start," in a relieved tone.

"Tel my ma an' your pa air willin'," she said, taking up the shuttle.

"I care more for you th'n for what they may say, an' I 'lowed you did the same, or you wouldn't 'a' promised to marry me. I s'pose you didn't mean it."

"I did mean it; but it's more'n I can do to go ag'in' 'em so p'intedly all at once," she said, and turned from him to lean against the loom, love and duty struggling mightily together in her heart.

"Well, it ain't more'n I can do," he replied, grimly; "an' when I get settled I'm jest bound to keep you to yer promise."

He drew nearer to her, hesitated, then kissed her cheek.

"I love you Sarah Betsy—I love you, honey," he whispered, then turned quickly away.

She followed him to the door, and when he had disappeared from her sight she looked long and gravely at Bush Mountain, a vast pile rising against the sky, its rugged slopes softened by a hazy veil. It had been invested with new interest for her as the temporary home and refuge of her lover.

The outbreak of the old feud between the Hurds and the Hardings was soon known throughout the Cove, and discussed at every fireside. Bitter feelings were engendered between sympathizing friends of the two families, and the peaceful settlement was divided into factions. The Harding boys were too young to take much part in the wordy war, but Mrs. Harding did not lack chivalrous support from some of her neighbors, who loudly declared that no lone woman should be trampled upon. The women, at least the younger women, and those inclined to sentiment, expressed great sympathy for Sarah Betsy and John. It seemed hard that the lovers should be divided by a quarrel between the elder members of the families.

"It's best for 'em if they only knowed it," said one brown, withered old woman, shaking her head grimly and cynically over her pipe. "Neither life nor men air what we 'low they air, when we er young. These young fo'ks air separated while their love is warm an' frush, an' without discoverin' that it ain't goin' to last ferever, an' that no human creetur is without a mighty load o' faults. I can recollect more'n one couple that 'peared lack they'd die broken-hearted if they didn't git married, an' then in a little while, 'peared lack they'd die because they wus married. There ain't no countin' on human natur, I can tell you. It's about the oncertaintest thing in this world 'ceptin' death."

Sile Ed'ards had to learn a new lesson in this uncertain human nature that summer, when those who in former times seemed to care most for his counsel turned impatiently away from his entreaties for peace. His words fell to the ground, and he carried a sorely troubled and heavy heart about with him, and spent more time than ever in the solitude of Bush Mountain, fasting and praying for his erring flock, who seemed to enjoy the excitement of a quarrel far more than they did the peaceable worship of the Lord; who brought sounds of strife to the very altar rails, more than one meeting having ended in bitter words.

The material prosperity of Laurel Cove was not in the least affected by the evil spirit apparently ruling the people. The corn-fields promised an abundant harvest, and the orchards were rich in fruits.

Mrs. Harding was an industrious woman, toiling early and late, and her hours of repose were, in the main, peaceful, though she rose sometimes in the middle of the night and crept softly to Sarah Betsy's bed to see that she also slept; for her heart yearned secretly over this disobedient daughter who had lost her bright, cheerful ways since John Hurd went away from the Cove. She suffered almost as much as the girl, though they said little to each other about it. Once Mrs. Harding did attempt to reason with Sarah Betsy, but she turned and said:

"Didn't you love Pa?"

"Didn't I? There wusn't many men to equal your pa."

"In your eyes, Ma, but maybe not in the eyes o' them what didn't love him. Love makes a mighty difference in the way we look at fo'ks. I 'low ever' woman thinks the man she loves is the best in the world."

Her mother said no more; but she ceased not to muse on the mystery and power of love. One morning she had started to the cow lot with a milk pail on her arm, when she saw a woman coming slowly through the sparse timber in the rear of the barn, a sunbonnet pulled closely over her head and face. It was very early. Deep Cimmerian shadows still obscured the low country, though the crimson light of dawn was spreading upward from the east, and a fading spectral moon sank slowly behind the western mountains. The morning star hung over the crest of Bush Mountain, heralding the day, and fine elusive mists rolled away from the Cove into the hollows and ravines of the guarding ranges.

A ghostly stillness seemed to hang over the world, and Mrs. Harding could hear the dry twigs crackling sharply under the feet of the slowly approaching woman. She went on into the lot and poured some bran and peas into the feeding-trough, and softly called the cow, standing in a distant corner. The stranger walked timidly up to the bars, and pushed back her sunbonnet. She was a small, meek-faced old woman, withered and gray.

"Good-mornin', Mis' Harding."

Mrs. Harding stiffened rigidly, and stared coldly at her, not recognizing her until she had spoken.

"You air out early, Mis' Hurd."

"Yes. I don't know what Hurd would do or say, if he knowed it; but he started to mill 'fore daylight, an' I crope out, 'lowin' it 'ud be a good time fer seein' you." She paused, absently untied her bonnet-strings, passed a trembling hand over her gray hair, then looked wistfully at Mrs. Harding.

"Mis' Harding, has Sarah Betsy heard anything from John lately?"

"Heard from John!" with a flash of indignation. "Didn't I tell Mister Hurd you needn't be a pest'rin' 'bout Sarah Betsy? It 'pears to me—"

"It's all 'long o' me bein' so troubled about him that I asked," said the old woman, hastily. "One o' the Brown boys wus down in the Cove t'other day an' he 'lowed John was sick, an' yesterday I begged his pa to go over there an' see 'bout him, but he 'lowed it wusn't no use; if John thought he could take keer o' hisself, let him do it. Men fo'ks, Mis' Harding, hain't got the feelin's o' women. There is such a weight here," laying one hard, withered hand on her breast, "that sometimes it 'pears to me I can't git my breath. If he hadn't a-gone off to the 'stillery. Them revenue officers will git him, shore, an' he'll die in jail; for he never could bear to be shut up. Why, he always sleeps with the door o' his room open. I hain't got nothin' ag'in' Sarah Betsy, Mis' Harding. I'd much ruther John an' her would marry th'n fer him to go off."

Her shrunken lips trembled piteously; some large tears rolled down her face. The frigidness of Mrs. Harding's attitude relaxed. She moved nearer the bars.

"I hain't nothin' ag'in' John, either, but Mister Hurd—"

"Is terribly sot in his ways, I know; but he don't mean to do wrong. He jest thinks he knows what is best for ever'body," said Mrs. Hurd, loyally. "John was always the sweetest, lovin'est child," returning to the subject absorbing her, "an' he never wus one to stay away from home much, even when he'd growed up. I never keered fer no better comp'ny than his'n; an' if a good son makes a good husband, then any girl might be proud to git him. It's turrible lonesome 'thout him ever comin' in or goin' out. Hurd says nothin' 'bout it, an' 'pears to sleep like a log; but I'm pestered at all hours o' the night, an' git up to look in John's room, an' when I see the bed all white an' smooth I feel like he's dead."

The cow ate up her food and went browsing along the fence corners again. Mrs. Harding's heart waxed soft within her. What religion failed to do, human sympathy accomplished. By her own experiences of motherhood she could understand the yearning and heartache of this other woman. It created a bond between them far easier of comprehension to her than the spiritual tie the preacher talked about. That seemed a mere cold abstraction—this a warm, living thing.

"I'm real sorry Sarah Betsy hain't heard nothin' from him," she said softly.

"I 'lowed maybe she would. Well, well, I won't pester you any longer."

Involuntarily their hands met through the bars in a quick close grip.

"I'm in hopes there ain't no bad news a-waitin' fer you, Mis' Hurd."

"I hope so; but a scritch owl lit nigh the door last night an' wouldn't hardly be driv' off, an' that's a bad sign, you know," she said mournfully, and turned to retrace her steps along the path through the woods, the dawn shining fair upon her bent gray head and slight figure. Mrs. Harding stood by the bars and watched her with a mingling of perplexity and compassion. She heard the voices of her own sons at the house, and sighed.

"It 'ud go mighty hard with me if they wus tuk away. I hain't nothin' ag'in' Mis' Hurd nor John, but old Killus would rile the angel Gabr'el hisself." She finally stooped and picked up her milk pail. "It ain't fer me to fergit my pride an' be crowed over by him."

Mrs. Hurd went on her way home. As she passed through a laurel brake, absorbed in her sad thoughts, she came face to face with Sile Ed'ards. He looked worn and hollow-eyed, as though he, too, had passed through sleepless nights and troubled days; but she was too preoccupied to be very observant. A minister must ever be ready to comfort and counsel his flock, no matter what his own feelings may be, so Mrs. Hurd poured out the story of her anxiety, and Ed'ards said what he could to reassure her.

"I'm goin' up to Bush Mountain, an' I'll see if I can hear anything o' John for you," he said kindly.

He did not tell her that he would see the young man and talk with him, but that was what he purposed doing as he slowly climbed the great mountain. He spent the morning in visiting one or two of his parishioners who lived on the mountain, then went on his way to Aaron Brown's house, a low cabin near the summit of the peak. There he learned that John Hurd had returned to work again, but Mrs. Brown shook her head over the state of his health.

"He's peaked, an' ain't got no appetite, an' I tell Brown it's all 'long o' his frettin' 'bout the quarrel with his pa an' the fo'ks in the Cove. He ain't fittin' fer the 'stillery work, nuther. It don't agree with him to al'ays have to be on the watch an' ready to run if a twig snaps, or a breath rustles the leaves." She sighed. "My old man an' the boys don't keer. Brown is as cunnin' as the fox that's had experience hidin' from the hounds, an' he's brought up the boys to be like him. Come back an' spend the night," she called after the preacher when he started on. "You ain't fittin' to be takin' such walks as this, nohow."

He winced, her blunt speech, the pitying glance she gave him, touching his pride. Nevertheless he accepted her invitation, then pressed onward toward the still, following a narrow trail down into a wild ravine. Night had fallen, and the deepest solitude surrounded Ed'ards, but he felt no fear. Now and then a gleam of starlight shone across his way, or rustling leaves betrayed the presence of animals abroad for prey. The distillery was located in an excavation under a ledge of rock, the upper entrance only a hole an ordinary sized man could crawl through, and cunningly concealed by a network of laurel, the lower one away down where a little stream trickled out between the roots of a gnarled old tree. Nature had helped the mountaineer to evade the law in giving him such places of concealment.

Ed'ards approached the spot with that caution inherent in almost all the people of that region, no matter what their calling may be. He was within a few yards of the opening of the still when he ran into the very arms of a man, and felt himself surrounded by a party, although it was too dark to see anything distinctly. He could not tell whether they were friends or foes in that first moment, but instinct warned him to still be cautious.

"Ha! we have caught one of them," muttered a voice, and then he knew that he was in the hands of the revenue officers.

Who shall say what thoughts passed through his mind in that moment? He could proclaim his vocation, purchase his own release by pointing out the hiding-place of the moonshiners, could send John Hurd away to prison. He stood still and speechless in the midst of the party.

"The 'stillery is not far away," said one.

"Hush," said another, warningly; "perhaps this fellow's friends are lurking near."

"They are," cried Ed'ards, and broke through the group so swiftly, so unexpectedly that he fairly slipped from their hands, free.

He stumbled pantingly over stones and underbrush, lost his stick, and then crawled along the ground, shouting at the top of his voice to those in the underground workroom. The officers Came thrashing through the brush after him, and he felt the sting of a bullet as it entered his side. They had fired several shots, and one had been correctly aimed in spite of the darkness. He fell across the mouth of the cave just as those within fled down the passageway and out into the woods beyond.

Laurel Cove was shaken from center to circumference by the tragical death of the preacher. That he, the most innocent and God-fearing man in the community, should die like a common outlaw, seemed the crudest, unjustest trick of fate. But deep in the consciousness of the sober-minded lurked the thought that he had been sacrificed by his own people; that the revenue officers were less to blame than his parishioners. It was old Killus Hurd who had the courage to acknowledge this feeling the day Sile Ed'ards was buried. It transpired that he had also gone to the 'stillery that day; that he fled with his son and the others when that warning cry, those pistol shots, came. He assumed all the blame, for had he not quarreled with the Hardings and then with his son?—but it was over. Peace should henceforth reign in his own household and in the household of his neighbor. He said this holding out his hand to Mrs. Harding, and weepingly she took it, for she also felt conscience-smitten for what had happened. The younger people were happier, for youth cannot feel as the sober middle-aged, and they were once more together. Sarah Betsy never knew that Ed'ards had loved her, but secretly cherished his memory with tender gratitude for being the means of giving back her lover to her.

But while they extolled his virtues and grieved for his sad fate, making peace with each other as they heaped the moist earth upon his grave, who shall say that his glad spirit was not soaring away to realms where neither infirmity of body nor sorrow of heart dwells?

THE CRUCIAL TEST.

It was down on the Altamaha. The Dugarres always spent the summers in their large, old-fashioned mansion, on their own plantation, coming out from Savannah in May and returning in November. It was a picturesque house, with its wide halls, its piazzas, and its white columns that a man's arms could not reach more than half around. It had withstood the changes of time, and war, and the passing away of several generations. It was a landmark of the old South, and though the row of cabins in the rear still had a few dusky occupants, they were farm-laborers, hired to work by the day.

The Dugarres were famous for their hospitality, and entertained guests from all parts of the Union. An unusually large party lounged on the shady piazza one hot, languid summer afternoon, representing Charleston, Atlanta, and even New York, not to speak of the fair Savannahians, and of Valentine Dugarre, all the way from Brazil. It was too warm for exertion; all quiet amusements had flagged, and even conversation had become a stupid effort, when Edward Dugarre brought out a dusty old Century and read Stedman's poem "Hebe." It roused both the lazy and the meditative to lively comments, all agreeing in their condemnation of Fiorina's revenge, so summary and so terrible. Did I say all? There was one exception—Valentine Dugarre. But some of them looked upon her as half savage, because of her Brazilian birth and her perfectly frank way of speaking out her thoughts and feelings. The Dugarres themselves were half afraid of her and rejoiced when she became engaged to Frank Black, a handsome young Savannahian of good family but of rather weak, unstable nature. She had been sent up to them to have an American finish put to her education and manners; but alien blood flowed in her veins, and she had been worshiped and spoiled in her own home until she had become as imperious and exacting as princesses are supposed to be. She could do the rashest, most unheard-of things when enraged, or when in a generous mood—such, for instance, as taking a ring from her finger and giving it to a ragged beggar when he asked her for five cents. When scolded for it by her shocked aunt she impatiently exclaimed:

"Can't you see that he is starving? What real need have I for the thing? Let it go, if it can be the means of bringing him food and clothing. I do not care to be rich, to wear jewels, while others are perishing with hunger."

And that summer afternoon she sat among those people, listening in silence to all their comments, and waiting until the last to have her say about the matter.

She was an imperial-looking girl, dark, but with a faint, delicate bloom on her cheeks, and the color of a rose on her lips. Her eyes were not black but golden-brown, and her hair had the texture of silk. Her very dress seemed to set her apart from the other women, who clothed themselves according to the decrees of fashion. It was fine-woven yellow linen, its full loose folds girdled in about the waist with a broad band of silver, its sleeves open half way up, revealing beautiful rounded arms. She set at open defiance all forms and rules, and laughed contemptuously at the conventionalities of society.

"I quite approve of Fiorina's revenge," she said at last, "only I would have killed the woman also;" then she smiled with scornful contempt to see the blood forsaking Helen Lawrence's face. "Why do you turn pale, Miss Lawrence?" she asked, leaning toward her with a gleam of mockery in her eyes.

"I—because it is horrible to hear you talk so," said Miss Lawrence, quickly recovering herself, for she shrank, if Valentine did not, from a crossing of words, as it was known by all in the house that the young Brazilian was jealous of her.

"Val does not mean it," said Edward, soothingly.

"I do mean it. What right had she to come between them—to use all her smooth little ways and arts to make him faithless? Yes, by all means, Hebe should have feasted upon her first."

She glanced at her lover, but he was looking intently across the sunlit cotton-fields to the shining sweep of the river, apparently not in the least interested in the conversation. Then she looked around on the disapproving faces of the other women.

"You may all look shocked, but I am different from you only in the expression of my thoughts. There is an untamed savage in every heart, no matter how finely the owner of that heart may be civilized, how highly polished."

"There is also a spirit of divinity, Miss Dugarre," said Mark Livingston, the young Charleston lawyer, in his grave, calm voice.

"But in some unguarded moment, some crisis, the savage conquers all. It is easy to be good until one is deceived or thwarted."

"But what cause have you to talk like a disappointed, soured woman of the world, Valentine?" her cousin exclaimed, a little impatiently.

"Oh, none whatever, of course." But a note of bitterness thrilled her sweet voice, and her jealous eyes saw the glance Helen Lawrence exchanged with Frank Black. She bit her full under-lip, until the blood almost started.

"You believe, then, that the evil in human nature is stronger than the good?" said Livingston.

"I do; for is it not true that many a lifetime of noble deeds has been wrecked in a moment of passion, the man stripped of his goodness, as of a garment, leaving the naked savage, fierce, revengeful?"

"But if there are such instances, so we can as easily recall others, where men and women, in moments of supreme sorrow or danger, have so far risen above all personal feeling as to be willing, nay, eager, to help their worst enemies."

She turned to her lover, "What do you think, Frank?"

"That it is too warm for argument, and that Ed might have selected less tragical reading for our amusement."

He laughed a little as he spoke, to give a jesting turn to his words, and, rising, walked away into the hall. Valentine's eyes flashed with anger, but in a moment she rose and followed him into the cool, duskily shadowed library.

"Dearest, did I disgust you with my savage talk?"

"I do not like such sentiments from you, Valentine. It does not sound womanly, and those people criticise you severely enough as it is."

Her eyes darkened again; her lips curled.

"What do I care for their good opinion!"

"It is well for us to care for everybody's good opinion."

"Miss Lawrence has taught you that great and noble truth, has she? You have grown very critical of my speech and manners yourself since she came among us. Frank, Frank! what is it coming between us?" she cried, in sudden, piteous entreaty.

"Your jealous imagination, Valentine. A man does not like to be doubted, frowned upon, every time he speaks to, or looks at, another woman."

"Is that all? Tell me, on your honor."

"Yes," he said; but his eyes shifted under her eager gaze, and a slight flush rose to his face. But she was too anxious to believe him to heed such fine changes of expression.

"I am a miserable, jealous creature, all fire and wicked temper," she humbly acknowledged. "I have tormented you, I know; but unfortunately for me I love you with all my heart, instead of just a little bit of it, and it is a great strong heart, dearest, if it is wayward and untamed."

She leaned toward him with luminous eyes, her beauty softened, as sweet and gentle as that of any other woman. What man could resist her in such a mood? He raised her arms to his neck, and kissed her on lips and eyes.

"You love me, you do really love me?" she whispered.

"Love you! How can I help it, my princess?"

They had a little dance at Dugarre that night—a merry, informal party. A large number of young people came out from the neighboring town, the parlors were cleared, and Uncle 'Riah, the old white-haired fiddler, was called in to play for them. It was a moonless night, and to add a little to the picturesqueness of the fine old house and grounds the negroes built a great bonfire on the lawn. It threw its ruddy light afar under the trees, and a rain of glowing sparks fell here and there on the grass, and some even floated away on wreaths of pearly smoke over the roofs.

The ladies of the house were all in evening dress, but it was acknowledged that Valentine Dugarre and Helen Lawrence carried off the palm for beauty. Valentine appeared her loveliest and best. No suggestion of scorn or anger marred her face. Her dress of thin, creamy silk was Greek-like in its flowing lines and its full draperies, and her throat and arms were bare. She wore no jewels, except her engagement ring, and a single diamond star in her hair. She was radiant, yet so sweet and gentle in all her ways, that those who thought they knew her best wondered what new whim possessed her. She even smiled approval when Black led Helen out on the floor and danced with her. If he had stopped at that!—but he asked her after the dance to walk on the piazza with him. She hesitated, cast a hurried glance about the room, saw Valentine in a distant corner talking to Livingston, and consented.

They walked the length of the long piazza, and then Black drew Helen into the deserted library. She took her hand from his arm, her usually pale face burning with color, her calm eyes agitated. It was enough to set his faithless heart aflame—to call forth treasonable words of love. Curiously enough it was on the very spot where a few hours before he had given Valentine such assurance of his love. The remembrance stung him to shame, but it could not silence his tongue. His love for Valentine had been an infatuation, but Helen held his heart. So he told himself, so he had been telling himself for a month, though he had never before confessed as much to Helen. Valentine was not the woman to make him happy, with her jealous, tempestuous moods and passionate temper.

"But you, you are an angel of sweetness and goodness," he said, kissing her hands, even the folds of her pale-blue silken sleeves.

Helen shivered a little as she listened to him, and cast uneasy glances about the room, for there was a good deal of cowardice in her nature, and she feared Valentine.

"What if she should hear you?" she said, trembling, yet leading him on with her soft eyes, her half-yielding manner.

"Why speak of her, think of her, now?" he exclaimed, "My bondage is not yet hopeless, and I—I cannot help not loving her."

"But you are engaged to her, and it is all wrong to talk so to me," she said, tears starting suddenly to her eyes. What she had deliberately begun as a flirtation had become as serious to her as to him. Her emotion nearly distracted him. Still rasher words trembled on his lips, when—

"Is this tableau for the benefit of the public, or only for your own amusement?" a voice inquired near them, causing them to start guiltily apart, for it was Valentine herself standing there, white as her dress, and with eyes that were terrible in their rage and anguish. "Mr. Black will be perfect in the art of love-making if he continues his present role. You need not tremble and look as if you'd like to run away, Miss Lawrence. There is no Hebe here to crunch your delicate bones, richly as you deserve such a fate, and willingly as I would give you to it."

"Blame me for it all, Valentine, not her," exclaimed Black, feeling like a craven between them.

"So you would protect and defend her! What a chivalrous gentleman! what a man of honor! Do you think I have been blind and deaf to the sighs and glances, to the thousand little arts she has used upon you—she, the example that has been held up to me by my aunt as worthy of imitation? Well, I congratulate her on the conquest she has made. Two months ago you were ready to grovel at my feet, and to-day—yes, only a few hours ago—you assured me that you were true, that you loved me; and I believed you." Her passion rose again to violence. "I would like to kill you both; yes, with my own hands!"

"Hush, for Heaven's sake!" exclaimed Black. "Do you want all those people in here?"

"Oh, no! It doesn't, of course, make any difference if you break my heart, but it would be shocking for the world to know it. I will hush, and leave you to console and reassure Miss Lawrence; but do not expect me to break our engagement. You shall never be free until I die—never!"

And then she left them, disappearing through the open window as swiftly and noiselessly as she had come upon them. Livingston met her on the piazza, and, without questioning his presence there, she allowed him to take her hand and lead her to a seat. He looked almost as pale as she, and far more agitated, and when she turned from him, covering her face with her hands, his self-possession deserted him entirely.

"Don't—don't cry, Valentine. He is not worth a tear, or one pang of that dear heart of yours."

"I know his worth; but that cannot alter my feelings now. I love him."

"And I—I love you, Valentine, even as you love him."

Valentine turned and looked at Livingston.

"Then I pity you," she said, simply, but with such pathos that he himself felt like dealing out summary punishment to Black. He did not attempt to plead his own cause then, knowing that it would be not only selfish but worse than useless. She had no thought for him or for anybody or anything but her own sorrow and bitterness. "I wonder if animals can have souls, because if they do I must have been a tigress."

She laughed tremulously, crushing up folds of her gown in her hands. "I'd like to kill them, I would indeed!" she exclaimed, her eyes burning through a veil of tears.

"You think so now because you are excited," Livingston said gently, as though speaking to an angry child.

"Excited! I think I must be mad."

"You could not do them any violence, Valentine, were it really in your power. I know your generous, noble nature better than that."