Front matter (continued 3)

It was a wild and glittering hope which danced before these sober men, leading them into the depths of mountain solitudes, hitherto trodden by white men seldom or never. Gold, the all-fascinating siren, allured them. Their hearts bounded, their pulses beat to the music of that whisper; the winds breathed it through the tall pines murmuring above them; the sunlight sparkled only to remind them of its glitter. Fond master-passion of the universal heart! the love of gold, dearer even than the love of woman, for it holds the key to that love, and to every other earthly delight.

The little, quaint, withered guide was enough of a philosopher to pause all of a sudden in their journey, and say, with that peculiar quirk of the mouth:

"What in creation am I chasing off here after a gold mine for? S'posin' I should stumble on a few hundred thousands or millions, what on airth would I do with my share? When I've plenty of tobaccy in my box, meat in my wallet and powder in my flask, I'm happy. I couldn't live without trampin' and huntin'. Yit here I am as crazy as the rest of 'em. Fact is, we're all a set of fools.

"Tell you what I will do," he continued, a little later, having evidently been dwelling on the subject: "if we strike a rich lead I'll give my share to Miss 'Lizabeth. She'd know how to make it fly, I reckon! As for me, I've neither wife nor child, and all I want is enough to keep me in tobaccy."

Buckskin Joe had no need of riches; but when, an hour later, they emerged from the woods into a wild and rock ravine, down the center of which a little stream came dashing and roaring, leaping from rock to rock, broken into foam one moment, and mended with silver bands the next—when they emerged into this secluded place, over which great masses of mountain hung threateningly, dark with frowning pines, rough with water-washed rocks, he threw up his cap, and shouted aloud:

"Here's the spot, Wolfe! Unless I'm more mistaken than ever I war' in my life, thar's gold enough in this ravine to pave the ground a mile square for Miss 'Lizabeth to walk over. I'll show you my reasons in less'n half an hour."

The hot blood rushed into the hunter's cheeks; a bright light danced in his eye; his breath came more quick with the excitement of the hour. Was he about to lay his hand on untold treasures? He believed so.

The circumstances which had brought the two adventurers to this remote and unsuspected locality were these: Upon the previous year, Buckskin Joe, crossing the mountains with a brother trapper, all alone, with no other object but game, furs and "the fun of the thing," happened upon this wild, romantic and picturesque spot. Resolved to follow the ravine up the mountain side, they commenced the difficult work of making their way from rock to rock, hight to hight, charmed with the noisy play of the stream. Coming into a little dell where the water was gathered into a basin worn in the rock, from which it overflowed and tumbled down a moss-grown steep, Joe stooped to drink, when his eyes caught the glitter of a large pebble lying in the bottom of the basin. He plunged in his arm and brought up a lump of pure, soft gold, nearly uncontaminated with other substances, and weighing nearly a pound. They lingered around the spot several days, finding half a dozen smaller specimens; then, having no way to bring off much treasure, and Joe's companion here injuring himself by an accident with his rifle, they were obliged to leave the mountains. They took their gold with them, and their story spread like wild-fire; but they betrayed to no one the exact locality of their discovery.

Another company made some discoveries in the same region that autumn. The news traveled through the winter and spring, and the summer saw people from all parts of the United States on their way to the new El Dorado.

So tardy and indifferent had Buckskin Joe been about profiting further by his good luck, that this was the first trip to the mountains since the time of his fortunate visit; the companion of his former trip was dead; he was sole possessor of the knowledge of a "lead" which, he was convinced, after a few days' observation of the "diggins" about Pike's Peak, was richer than any of them. He had come to the mature resolve to take Nat Wolfe into confidence and partnership—especially since he had observed the threatening clouds lowering about the two young people since the advent of the father into the interests of the group.

The result of a talk he had held with the moody hunter, a fortnight after the arrival of the company at their destination, was this private expedition, upon which the two set off, unsuspected by others.

With his present increased knowledge of mining, Joe "calkilated" to pick up enough stray nuggets in the quiet basins and gullies of the stream to make the two men rich beyond their wishes, before it would be necessary to take any trouble of machinery. He was sure that the accumulated washings of centuries were lying ready to their hands.

With eager, watchful eyes and glowing veins the gold hunters pushed forward up the difficult ravine. The stream was now dwindled to about its slenderest proportions; it was an excellent season in which to attempt their plans; but the brief September afternoon began to darken before they had laid their hands upon any tangible evidence to give substance to their brilliant dreams. The sun, sinking early behind the mountains, threw their deep shadows over the way, often slippery and uncertain.

"Wal, we're here, and all ready for work in the mornin' bright and 'arly," said Buckskin Joe, as the night drew closer. "Our best way is to climb back into the woods ag'in; we can have a comfortable bed of boughs and pine-tossels, and begin to-morrer. Thar's no hurry—nobody's goin' to carry our fortins off in the night. So let's make ourselves cosy. By this time to-morrer we'll be independent."

Clinging to roots of trees, washed bare by spring freshets, and to ledges of dark and chilly rock, they swung themselves up out of the cool ravine into the pleasant forest.

"We won't kindle a fire here in the midst of this pitchy stuff," remarked Joe; "the woods is jest like a match, ready to go off at the least rub, at this season of the year. Otherwise we might kill a brace of bird, and brile them for supper. As it is, we'll make out on a cold smack."

By the time the repast was taken, evening had shut them in. The guide, healthily fatigued after their long tramp, with a look to his knife and rifle in case of a stray bear, composed himself soon upon his primeval couch, and was breathing the deep and regular breath of a good sleeper long before Nat could close his excited eyes. Dreams of the expected successes of this search, mingled with softer dreams of the fair girl from whom he seemed so far separated—as if she never had been near his heart, and never could be—thronged upon his brain, as he looked up at the great silver stars peering here and there through rifts of the pine branches far overhead.

The wind, according to its nightly habit, began to rise, and to rush roaring down the mountain side, kissing the dark boughs of the pines till they wailed in unison. It was a solemn, sweet and mighty music, pleasant to the soul and sense of the hunter as he lay there dreaming of the woman he loved. But as the hours crept on to midnight, he, too, slept.

Buckskin Joe, as he stirred uneasily in his sleep, had a strange, disagreeable dream. He thought the water in the ravine began to rise with an awful roar—to rise until it overflowed gully and wood—till his ears were stunned by its tumult—till it reached and overflowed him where he lay—he was drowning! and in the spasmodic efforts he made to buffet the horrible stream, he finally awakened. Yes, he was awake; but where he was, or what was the matter, he could not recall. He felt as if a thousand pounds lay upon his chest, pressing him in the earth—he heard a dull, curious, continuous roar, like the incessant discharge of cannon, through which pierced sharp reports, as of volleys of musketry; there was a lurid glare around him that was not the light of moon or sun—for an instant the rough hunter thought of hell! A flake of burning pine-cone falling upon his face revealed the truth. Great God, the forest was on fire!

As the appalling conviction rushed upon him, he raised upon his elbows and looked about. A sea of fire spread around him in every direction—they were already ringed in that awful circle. High overhead flew great sheets and banners of flame, snatched up by the wind and flung from tree-top to tree-top, while a fiery shower fell constantly, drifting down through the lower foliage, which here was not fully kindled. Dense masses of hot and suffocating smoke now shut him in, and were again lifted for a moment by the howling wind. His first thought was of his companion.

He shouted, he felt about him, but obtained no response. Nat had gone to sleep about five yards from him, to the left. He rolled himself over and over until he reached what ought to be the spot, and here he groped about in the blinding smoke, calling sharply upon his friend, who, he was afraid, might be already overpowered. While he was making these efforts he choked, his brain reeled—he felt consciousness slipping from him as the dense vapor hung thicker and hotter about him. But before he entirely lost himself in that deadly struggle, a fierce gush of wind came rushing under the ocean of flame which roared far above. It caught up and whirled away the smoke; he breathed comparatively free again; and in that instant of salvation an instinct whispered to him of the cool ravine, of the delicious waters only such a little distance away. Better to fling himself down and be dashed to pieces on the rocks than to die by this torturing element which threatened him.

He crept along the ground with his face close to the earth. Once or twice the smoke grappled with him—as often a blessed breath of air came creeping after. Suddenly a cold draft struck him on the brow: he knew that it came up from the ravine. Gasping, exhausted, he made yet another effort, reached the edge of the rock, dragged himself over, hanging by his hands, and dropped, in the darkness, knowing nothing of the distance beneath him, nor what cruel reception he might meet from objects below.

For a short time after the fall he lay stunned by the shock, gradually reviving to a sense of safety—that he was alive and whole. He could hear the blessed music of the running stream; all was deep darkness where he was, but he crept along until he could dip his hand in the water, and cool his scorched face and parched tongue. Lifting up his head, he could see the glare of the burning forest against the sky, and the huge showers of sparks floating off into space. Men pray instinctively in times of peril and preservation; Buckskin Joe, albeit unused to prayer, uttered a fervent exclamation of thankfulness for his escape. The next instant he buried his face in his hands with a groan. He had thanked God for his own welfare, but he shuddered as the fate of his companion rushed over him.

It seemed a long time to him before the break of day enabled him to do any thing; it was hard work for him to remain idle while a chance remained in favor of Nat's escape. The glorious September morning was dull with hovering smoke in this vicinity; Joe discovered, by its light, that he had dropped some thirty feet down a precipice and lodged upon a shelf of rock so well cushioned with earth and moss that he had escaped without broken bones.

As he stood up and essayed to walk, he found himself stiff with bruises. Following the ledge upon which he was until he came around the precipice to a now broken and uneven fork, which promised sufficient foothold, he began to climb back to the forest. When he reached the surface of the wood, he found the fire still burning; the tops of the trees were consumed, but the trunks were standing like pillars of fire, and the ground—covered inches thick with dry pine-tassels, cones and other tinder-like combustibles—was now one mass of smoldering fire, upon which it was impossible to set foot.

The smoke was suffocating, coming as it did from the green wood of the trunks and branches, which were slowly charring without being consumed. If Nat Wolfe had not escaped by such an almost miraculous chance as had occurred to the guide, then he had indeed met a terrible death—nothing but his ashes could now remain upon that vast bed of fire.

There was life nowhere but in the deep ravine; back to that Buckskin Joe descended, with a heart of lead. Nearly all day he wandered up and down its intricacies, calling aloud, and getting only mocking echoes for answer.

He thought little of gold that day—he would have given a pound of gold for a pound of bread; and he would have given all the treasures he ever expected to find in the Rocky Mountains for a sight of his friend, alive and well before him. His acquaintance with Nat Wolfe had not been of long duration; but there was that in the stuff which Nat was made of which had secured the old guide's warmest friendship and admiration.

As the day wore away he gradually abandoned the faint hope to which, against reason, he had clung. Forlornly he set his face homeward. He would starve to death if he did not make his way out of that barren gully; there was no game, and if there had been, his rifle had been left to destruction. It being impossible to attempt the forest, all he could do was to follow the water course until he could reach some track which was clear of the fire, through which he might strike for the settlement. That night he lay on the damp rock; the next day, hungry, rheumatic and low-spirited, he continued on a few miles, came out upon the open mountain side, and, guided by the sun and his general knowledge of the country, pushed forward for Pike's Peak. He could see the forest-fires still raging to the south of him; but the wind had carried them from his present vicinity. A few prickly pears from a tree which he found on his way gave him a welcome though insufficient dinner.

About sunset he entered Pike's Peak settlement, which he startled with the news of the fate of Nat Wolfe.

CHAPTER IX.

FATHER AND DAUGHTER.

My steps are turned away; Yet my eyes linger still On their beloved hill, In one long, last survey; Gazing, through tears that multiply the view, Their passionate adieu.—Mrs. Barrett.

"There is a train starts homeward to-morrow, Elizabeth. We can not have a better opportunity for going East under good protection. It will be no easier for you to part from your friends a month or a year from now—so I think best to warn you of my decision. You'll be happy with your father, will you not? I am sure you will. This is no place for you. I can surround you with circumstances which will make you as glad and gay as the birds; and you will be my darling, my life, my all, my daughter!"

The deep feeling with which Dr. Carollyn spoke made his voice tremble and stirred the heart of the young girl strangely. She raised her wistful eyes to his; she pressed his hand to assure him of her gratitude and affection—but what little light and color still remained in her pale face faded out, leaving it as white and fixed as death. First she glanced into the little log-cabin where Mrs. Wright was too busy over the wash-tub to hear what had been said, then out in the sunshine where the children were playing, and then her gaze wandered to the pine-forests far away. Wreaths of blue smoke still curled from the charred trunks of millions of trees and floated like a thin haze in the west and south. The settlement had been excited for many days, by melancholy reports of the loss of life occasioned by that disastrous fire.

The charred remains of a company of four persons had been found in one spot, whose names and history must forever remain unknown—strangers in a strange land—so perishing as to leave no link by which to connect them with their friends, whoever these might be. Wild rumors, setting the loss of life from thirty to a hundred, as already known, floated about, growing from day to day.

The fate of Nat Wolfe had made a profound impression, and still cast a shadow upon the thoughts of his former friends. Buckskin Joe had himself undertaken to communicate the tidings to the Wrights, feeling more than any other person that the news would harrow one young heart most cruelly. He had watched, with sagacious quiet, the progress of affairs between the young people—had secretly chafed at the cold repulsion of Dr. Carollyn's manner toward the haughty hunter who would not make a single concession in advance—had thought he saw that Elizabeth was the deepest sufferer by this state of things—and had been making up his mind to tell Nat that he was a great fool not to take the young girl, in despite of her father—when the events of the last chapter so tragically cut short his plans for the two lovers.

"I'll be danged if I hadn't rather face the fire ag'in than to tell her," said the guide to himself, feeling wretchedly, "but thar's no one will break it so easy, mebbe—and I've got to out with it—that's all!"

He went straight to the log-cabin, in which the Wrights were established, more through the energy of Dr. Carollyn than any exertion of their own. The sunset streamed pleasantly into the little room, whose entrance-way was unopposed by other door than a piece of wagon-cover, which was let down at night.

Elizabeth was spreading a cloth on the grass outside, and Mrs. Wright was coming out with a tin plate heaped with biscuits and another with fried pork. Timothy was putting away his pipe, preparatory to supper.

"You're just in time, Joe," said the matron; "set by, and have somethin' to eat. You haven't been to supper, I hope."

The maiden had colored rose-red when she saw him coming; in her thoughts he was associated with Nat; she knew they had gone off on some kind of an expedition together, and she half expected to see the hunter in his wake. Joe saw the blush and groaned inwardly. Famished as he was, for he had stopped for no refreshment except a glass of whisky, he felt as if he could swallow nothing for the great lump that came up in his tough old throat. But so absolutely faint was he from exhaustion that he sunk down by the cloth, and stretching out his hand for a biscuit, began to eat it before the others were helped, or before he had made any answer to the hostess. Accustomed to the free-and-easy manners of his class, Mrs. Wright pushed the plate near him with a smile, called her husband and the children, and was pouring out the black coffee into tin cups, before she addressed her guest further:

"How's our friend, Nat Wolfe? He went 'long with you, didn't he?"

Joe swallowed his cup of scalding coffee, got up, and went into the cabin to light his pipe.

"I wish you'd eat your supper, Miss 'Lizabeth," he said, coming out and looking at her moodily.

She raised her eyes to his with a bright smile, but when she met his look, she startled, and grew anxious; the biscuit and bacon grew distasteful to her—she sipped her coffee, but not as if she cared for it.

"Did you have any luck, or wasn't you looking for a lead?" asked Mr. Wright, as the guide smoked in silence.

"Had some awful bad luck," answered Joe, letting his pipe fall and break to pieces. "We got caught in that fire, ye see. I got out of the scrape by hard scratching," here he paused entirely and stared at Elizabeth, who had set down her cup and was also staring at him.

"But what?" cried Mr. Wright. "My God! you don't mean to say that—that Nat Wolfe is lost!"

"Look out for that girl," called Joe, to Mrs. Wright, who turned and found Elizabeth fallen upon her face.

"I s'pose I've killed her, after all," muttered the guide, "it's my luck with that gal. Yes, Wright, Wolfe's gone, no mistake. I don't believe she's comin' to, right away; I guess I'll go for the Doctor."

"Yes, do—her father'll know just what to do. She's in a dead faint. It come on her so sudden."

"I hain't got sense to break any thing softly," muttered the old fellow, starting off in the direction of a cluster of tents, in one of which he had seen Dr. Carollyn as he passed by it. When he returned with that gentleman, the maiden was still unconscious; and it required time and skill to revive her from the deathly stupor into which she had been stricken.

Dr. Carollyn was shocked when he learned the cause of his daughter's illness; he had admired the hunter's brave and chivalric character, and felt grateful to him for the priceless service he had rendered in the rescue of his child—while he could not make up his mind to receive him as a son and a rival in the affections of that child. His awful and tragic fate affected him deeply; while he was pained to see the evidence of Elizabeth's interest in the lost one.

He hoped that a great part of the effect of the news upon her was owing to the weakened, excited state of her nerves, her mind and body having been overwrought by the occurrences of the past few weeks. That it was more a shock to her nerves than a fatal blow to her heart, he allowed himself to believe. He himself felt appalled by the sudden and terrible nature of the catastrophe.

With the utmost gentleness and tenderness he won her back to consciousness, and soothed and strengthened her through the two or three days' prostration which followed. During these days he made up his mind to wait no longer, before urging the necessary step of a parting from her old friends, than until she should be strong enough to undertake the return journey.

It was now a week since the news of the accident. Elizabeth was about her little duties, pale and quiet; and her father was making all needful preparations for a speedy departure. Having learned of a train that was about to start eastward, he had taken this time to give her warning of his intentions. Had such a dazzling change in her prospects occurred a month ago, she would have welcomed it with all the delight and eagerness of her age. When oppressed with the dreariness of that long journey, tired of the homely fare, the rough company, if she had been told that such a father as this—a man to whom she could cling with all the fondness of her wild young heart—would come to her and offer all those splendors after which she had vaguely pined, her fancy would have reveled in happy enchantments—her dull life would have opened into a magic land, out of that monotonous desert.

Now her eyes fixed themselves upon the blackened forest with a gaze that could not be torn away; they seemed to say in that expression of mute longing and despair, that it would be sweeter to her to go there and throw herself, like the Hindoo widow, on that smoldering pyre, than to take her father's hand and go with him where every thing that makes life beautiful to the young awaited her. Such a depth of feeling in the breast of one who had been but a child a little while ago, proved that the character written in those mobile features and singularly expressive eyes was one of no ordinary power. She was one that, loving once, like her mother, would love so purely and deeply that to jar or rudely to doubt or destroy, would be death; and with this fondness was blended much of the passionate tenacity of her father's nature.

When Nat Wolfe, holding her, dying, in his arms, in the burning, solitary desert, sealed her soul with the impress of his own, that impress was eternal.

Finally, with a long, gasping sigh she withdrew her gaze, and trying to smile, said in a low voice:

"You are right, father. It is well to go at once, since we must go. It will not take much time to complete my preparations;" and truly, the gathering up of two calico frocks, and the precious box of mementoes left by her mother, constituted the whole of Elizabeth's trouble in the matter.

When Mrs. Wright heard the decision in favor of immediate departure, she left off wringing her clothes, and took to wringing her hands and crying in her demonstrative way.

"Don't, auntie, don't—it will make me more unhappy," said the maiden, so pitifully, that she made a great effort to restrain herself.

Timothy Wright didn't weep or wring his hands, but he walked about in a meaningless way, did every thing wrong that he tried to do, and made himself as useless and forlorn as usual.

Grieved as the couple were to part with their adopted niece, they never thought of opposing the step; they loved her too sincerely to oppose their claims against the prospect of her being placed as they had always felt she needed and deserved. Lizzie had been a rare and misplaced exotic in their homely garden, and they had no wish to withhold her from the warmth and light and beauty necessary to her. They rejoiced heartily in her good fortune, trying to put their own loss out of sight.

Feeling how much he was taking from them, Dr. Carollyn did not prepare to leave them, without substantial tokens of his esteem and gratitude. He told Mr. Wright that farming was his legitimate business, not mining, and that there was a hundred-fold more gold to be found in carrots and corn and potatoes, than in the quarter of the ravines. The rich character of the land immediately at the foot of the mountain, and the fabulous prices which fruits and vegetables would bring for years to come, would insure a fortune to any farmer who would give his attention to the cultivation of articles needed in the market. Getting Wright's consent to the wisdom of the plan, he selected a suitable farm, bought cattle and utensils to enable him to work it, gave him money enough to live on for the winter, providing him fully with the ways and means for doing well.

The hour of parting came swiftly—was over—and Elizabeth, sundered from the past, completely, even in name—her father called her Annie—set out to recross those desert plains to the unknown realms of the great world which lay beyond—so near, so far away—so long dreamed of, so utterly unknown.

Buckskin Joe insisted upon being one of the party across the plains; he could not give up his oversight of the maiden whom he had taken in such special charge since the first glimpse into her young face had won him into her service; and when, after duly and safely seeing her as far on her way as the first steamboat landing on the route, he bade her farewell, tears stood in his eyes, as he gave her, with extra fervor, his parting benediction:

"The Lord bless and preserve ye, and keep ye from the bite of a rattlesnake!"

CHAPTER X.

AN UNEXPECTED DECLARATION.

I know it—I feel it—he loves me at last! The heart-hidden anguish is over and past! Love brightens his dark eyes, and softens his tone; He loves me! he loves me—his soul is mine own! Mrs. Osgood.

In among curtains of amber silk, which made the sunlight more sunny still, came the glow of an October afternoon. The rich atmosphere lay slumberously over the books and pictures and luxurious furniture of Dr. Carollyn's library. He was not in; but occupying his easy-chair, drawn up near the pleasant window, reclined his daughter, motionless, with half-shut eyes, lost in a soft reverie:

"With her head at ease reclining, On the cushion's velvet lining, On the velvet, violet-lining, with the sunlight gloating o'er."

The little volume of blue and gold in which she had been reading had fallen away from her hand, and lay half-hidden in the fragrant folds of her dress; some strain of Tennyson's delicious music had thrilled her heart with memories more than hopes, for the dreamy luster of her eyes had a light more of tears than smiles. There was a light shadow on the clear, smooth forehead, a slight compression of the beautiful mouth—as if a word might startle that breathless dream into a shower of tears.

"Dear as remembered kisses after death."

this was the line at which she had dropped the poem, and sunk away into the past. The year just gone slipped out of her life and fell into the sea of oblivion with a sparkle—this house, this home, this father, these splendors, these pleasures slid away—she was not Annie Carollyn, rich, lovely, and flattered—but Elizabeth Wright, a sun-burned, forlorn, and starving girl, sinking down in a pitiless desert, with only a pair of strong arms to link her to life—only a long, long kiss of love and despair to hold her flitting soul until relief came. And where were the arms and where the lips that held her then?

"Dear as remembered kisses after death."

Ah, holy were the memories of that first, last kiss to the maiden—deep down in the most secret chamber of her soul they lay, so sacredly reserved, so sadly precious, that not even her quick-eyed father knew how they were enshrined.

In October Dr. Carollyn had arrived in his native city with his recovered treasure; and it was now the month of gold again. In that year he had grown many years younger. He found profound happiness in the possession of his lost child—peace after years of harrowing misery.

When that great calamity had befallen him in the days of his youth, he had shut up the house in which the brief scenes of his married life had been enacted, and had gone away from his practice and his friends, spending most of his time in restless travel from land to land, coming back occasionally to haunt the deserted house for a few weeks. As the tide of fashion moved up town he was advised to sell his mansion; but he would allow neither occupants, nor other changes than such as were necessary to preserve it from premature decay. The old housekeeper, who had been his mother's, and who welcomed his bride to her home, was left in charge of the furniture as long as she lived. This ancient friend had passed away, leaving every thing to darkness and silence, before the return of the Doctor with his child.

Then came a change. The house was no longer upon a fashionable street, but it was quiet and respectable, and he would have no other. In this house he would begin life again. Sunshine was let into the long-closed rooms—the moldering curtains and carpets were replaced—an air of joy and luxury was given to the desolate mansion—only one room was left untouched and unseen save by the hand and eye of the master. When arrangements were complete, he took his daughter from the hotel where they had stopped, and brought her home—to be its star and queen.

Uncultivated as she necessarily was from her manner of life, his affection received very slight shock from his pride; for her beauty was of that refined and indisputable type to which all people yield obedience, and the grace of her beautiful nature gave a charm to her manners which surpassed the polish of finishing schools. She glided into her new estate as naturally as a swan into the water—she was only in her element.

Dr. Carollyn did not think of sending her from him to study; masters waited upon her at the house; pride and duty did not urge her to study more than her mind craved enlightenment. The interest she took in her books was a safeguard, had she needed any, against her becoming too much engrossed by the flatteries and gayeties of society; but her mind was of that noble order which could be affected by no such trivial dangers. She enjoyed, as youth and beauty should enjoy, the pleasures surrounding her; it was pleasant to be so loved and attended upon; but she was in no manner spoiled by indulgence. A fear of her own deficiencies gave a slight dash of humility to her otherwise rather queenly address; she was sweet, and proud, and fair, and quiet, the wonder and admiration of many. All this time, though not in the least morbid or melancholy, she carried with her a constant regret—a sorrow which shaded her too brilliant lot.

Dr. Carollyn guessed something of this; but since the source of this sorrow was one which could never interfere with himself, and since it made her so indifferent to the adulations of the young men of their circle, since it did not seriously interfere with her health and spirits, but only promised to keep her the more entirely his, that selfish instinct of jealousy caused him to no longer regret its existence.

A ray of sunshine creeping aslant the slumberous atmosphere, fixed itself in the purple braids of the young girl's hair like a golden arrow. But she knew not how the cunning hand of the sun was bewitching her—she wist not how beautiful was the lustrous repose of her face, and the silken gleam of her garments—her soul was far away. The faint tinkle of a bell sounded through the quiet house, the outer door was opened and closed; she did not hear any thing; she did not even stir when the noiseless door of the library swung back and the quiet footman entered with a card.

"Shall I tell him you are at home, Miss Carollyn?"

She started and glanced up, taking the card which he handed her with a little surprise at his doubting air. His knowledge of the proprieties did not extend to a recognition of the name upon the pasteboard—it might be that of the Embassador of Spain—he did not know—the gentleman who gave it looked passable, certainly. Mechanically, for she had not shaken off the spell which the poem had wrought on her, she read:

"Golden Arrow."

Confused by the unknown name, the footman had failed to close the door into the apartment which he entered, and the audacious stranger, in the hall, had obeyed an irresistible impulse to approach the end of the hall, and look after the fate of his card. He had a full view of the maiden dreaming in the "violet-lined" chair; had noted the rich clearness of her rounded cheek, the glossy smoothness of her hair, the tremulous, sorrowful depression of the dark eyelashes and red lips; had absorbed with an eager glance the grace of her drapery, the elegance of her surroundings—and now, he watched her, startled from her reverie, listlessly look at the card, turn red and pale, and throw a wild, bewildered look toward the entrance where he stood.

"Let him come in," she said, rising to her feet.

The footman bowed, and retiring, sent the visitor in. As he came forward, she stood, slightly leaning forward, pale as death, doubt, fear and startled surprise in face and attitude, and a look of bewilderment over all.

A moment the two stood looking full into each other's eyes; then the stranger smiled, and she cried:

"Nat!"

A mutual impulse, such as thrills from breast to breast of man and woman like an electric shock, moved them both. He held out his arms appealingly, but not sooner than she sprung forward to be clasped in them. They were alive, face to face, heart to heart—that was enough.

For a few moments this blissful truth was all they cared to realize. Presently they stood apart, wondering at their own impulses, their own joy. If Elizabeth—we must call her Elizabeth to the end of the chapter—had been beautiful before, she was radiant now. Her clear, dark complexion and expressive features were made for just such light and color as filled them now. Her lover gazed upon her in rapture, and her own timid glance sought to repay his admiration in kind.

This was indeed Nat Wolfe, the hunter of the plain, towering in frame, erect in carriage, dashing and chivalrous in manner—this his frank smile and kindling eye; but the roughness of his wild life was smoothed away. The gleaming rifle, frightful knife and hunter's frock were exchanged for a civilized dress, at which the scrupulous footman at the door could not have carped. Only one peculiarity of his adventurous life was retained—he wore that long, bright hair of his as loosely as ever. It streamed about his neck in a fashion unknown to Broadway; but it accorded so well with his unusual hight and manly bearing that it gave him the dignity of the famous men of old.

Suddenly Elizabeth said, with a return of the doubting air:

"Are you really alive, Nat?"

"I hope so," he answered, laughing, but very earnest, "since I am so blessed. If you do not believe it, sit here, will you, by my side, and let me tell you just how it is that I have come, a sound spirit in a sound body, to inquire after the welfare of the little girl whom I found once on the great prairie."

They sat side by side upon the sofa, hand clasped in hand.

"On that awful night in which I wakened in the heart of the forest to find myself surrounded by a sea of fire, my first impulse was to alarm my companion. I groped about in the suffocating smoke; but I am since convinced, by comparing notes with Joe, that, confused and blinded as I was, I worked in the wrong direction. I was probably the one who was first awake, as he says he is certain he reached the spot where I ought to have been before making efforts for his own escape. Failing in all attempts to join him, and at times half insensible from the oppressive smoke, I made a desperate effort to preserve strength and reason for an escape from the frightful ocean of flame which roared and surged around, above, everywhere, except down in the hell of heat and vapor through which I crawled. The same idea which came to Buckskin Joe, of attempting to reach the gorge, occurred to me; but I was now so bewildered by the search for him, that I no longer was certain in which direction it lay.

"I crept along on my hands and knees, feeling the heat each moment more intolerable. I struggled for breath, until I finally sunk, and lay helpless, my eyes upturned to that strange, fearful, yet gorgeous vision of leaping and flickering fire in the tree-tops, surging in the wind, against a black, starless sky. I yielded to the dangerous enchantment of the light; a deadly languor and drowsiness crept over me—at that perilous moment you seemed to call me, dear Elizabeth, and gave me superhuman energy. I struggled against death—against fate; I would not yield—I would not die! Once more I crawled along; thank God, a breath of air, cool, sweet, delicious, struck my face; the next instant the bed of grass and pine-tassels beneath me gave way, and I fell into darkness and insensibility.

"How long I remained unconscious I could never tell. When I recovered a memory of my situation, I felt about me in the darkness, and was convinced that I had dropped through the opening of a cave on to the earth and rocks within. It might be that I was immured in some cavern from which there was no outlet—that I had escaped death by fire to find here a more lingering but not less certain destruction. No matter; to have escaped from that terrible torment above me was enough for the present. After I had fully recovered my presence of mind, I recollected that I had a match-box in my pocket, well supplied; I lighted one of the frail tapers, and by its brief flare had an instant view of a wide and wonderful cave, stretching away into unfathomed darkness, and glittering here and there with fanciful stalactites. It was a weird place in which to be entombed.

"Groping at my feet I scraped together the dry leaves and sticks I had brought down in my fall, and lighted them; before they burned entirely out, I had gathered by the light they gave, quite an armful of fuel, which, from time to time, had apparently fallen through from the fissure above. With these I built a fire, in the hope that its flame would enable me to detect some opening, by which I might trace a path out of this perilous place. The flames arose brightly, throwing crimson gleams athwart the gloom, revealing marvelous crystals flashing from columns which seemed built of ice and marble, and shining against what looked like cascades fixed in the very act of pouring from the hights above.

"Anxious as I was, and bent only on finding an outlet, I could not withhold a curious and admiring gaze from the splendid shapes half revealed in the flickering light. The roof was fringed with glittering crystals; but, though I saw the openings of many chambers, caverns within caverns, stretching into darkness where I dared not venture, I saw no gleam of the day which I knew must be shining over the blessed world outside.

"When all the fuel I could gather was nearly exhausted, I made a splendid discovery. I found a good pine-knot, which would burn for an hour or two, and might light me either further into the hopeless intricacies of a living tomb, or out into safety. I lighted this welcome torch and immediately started upon an exploring expedition, such as I had never before undertaken. I could only trust to fate at the best. Out of all the passages inviting me there were many chances that I should take the wrong one, when probably only one was right. Eagerly I pushed forward along what appeared to be the main hall of this majestic cave. For at least a half mile my path was clear; then I heard the sound of running water, and presently came to a stream which I thought completely blocked the narrowing way between lofty rocks; but I ventured upon a rough and slippery path, and by much climbing, passed the worst of it, and came out again to a wide, subterraneous chamber.

"Here I was astonished to observe traces of human labor and handicraft. I came upon various tools, which seemed intended for mining purposes, and were made of hardened copper. As they were not like those in use by our own miners, I was forced to the conclusion that I had stumbled upon some of the relics of the ancient people of this continent. I looked about curiously, and by the glare of my torch fell upon a heap of ore, piled up on a dry rock in the corner of the chamber—a heap of glittering ore, washed from the soil and gravel, and ready for the crucible. I examined it—it was gold! gold in crumbly dust, in irregular lumps, in broken quartz, enough of it gathered and heaped in that long-neglected pile to make me, dear Elizabeth, a much richer man than I had ever aspired to be.

"For a few moments my breath came hard; I was excited, as men are at the sight of countless wealth. But my torch began to flicker and wane. Gold was not bread, nor water, nor sunlight—it was not life—I was fighting for life. I pressed on; but in less than half an hour my pine-knot was consumed.

"Exhausted, I sat down a few moments to rest, and to nibble the dry biscuit which chanced to be in my pocket. This little refreshment gave me new energy. I groped along, following the stream—I had a strong hope that that noisy babbler would lead me out of this cavern sometime, provided I did not drown myself or break my neck before that happy time should arrive.

"I was not wrong in my conjecture. After suffering mental and bodily torture which I will not distress you by speaking of, suffice it that I emerged, the second day of my entombment, into the light of the sun once more.

"I found myself in one of the wildest gorges of the Rocky Mountains. How I supped that night on a prickly pear—how I killed a wild animal the next day with my hunting knife, and lived on its flesh during the rest of my adventures—how I took care to mark the devious and intricate path, by which, after nearly a week of travel, I found myself upon familiar ground again—how I finally worked my way to Pike's Peak—of all this I will some day give you the particulars.

"I will only say now how stricken I felt when I heard of the departure of my little girl, only two days previously, and that I was too proud to follow when her father had kept me at such distance. I will only say, sweetest, how my heart burned when good Mrs. Wright told me of the blow it had been to you when you thought me lost. I believed that you loved me, and I blessed you in my inmost soul. I resolved to go some time and ask you if it were not so. But not just then. I would go in such guise that your haughty father should not discard me—at least with good reason.

"I returned upon my tiresome journey back to that wonderful cavern, but this time I went well armed, provisioned and escorted, with a few chosen men to share the dangers and the spoils. I led my little band to the exact locality, and, by following the subterraneous stream as I had done at my exit, I made my way to those old chambers where unknown miners of an extinct race had toiled centuries ago, laying up riches to help me in my little plot for happiness.

"We brought away the accumulated gold which by some purpose or accident had been left concealed in the cavern; I had the lion's share, but there was enough for all. Your good uncle, Mr. Wright, was one of the fortunate ones.

"I left Pike's Peak several months ago. I met Buckskin Joe on the plains. He wished me good-luck, told me to 'fear for the best,' and sent you, as a token of his everlasting friendship, this golden arrow, which he had manufactured from a lump of the precious metal which he took from that ravine. May I put it in your hair, dear Lizzie?

"I have been a long time at my father's home in this State—a home which I deserted years ago, driven forth into the wilds of the West by a silly and heartless girl that I have seen, this summer, fat, frowsy, and commonplace, boxing her children's ears. My dear mother was dead. But my father was alive and still preaching to a loving and devoted congregation. You wouldn't have guessed I was a minister's son, would you, little one? And a minister's son is almost as respectable as a doctor's daughter—particularly when he is worth half a million. Besides, I have shorn my shaggy coat. I'm not quite such a bear as I used to be. Do you think I am?"

She smiled as he bent his handsome face to look into her eyes; then her head drooped, until her face was hidden in his arm.

"I should have loved you as much, had you been just the same," she said. "But why did you stay away so long?—so near, and never to let me know?"

"Was it wrong, Lizzie? Perhaps it was, but I wanted to give you a chance to make a different choice if your taste inclined. When you knew me, you did not know the world. I would not take advantage of your ignorance. I came to this house with fear and trembling, but your sweet eyes told me the truth the moment I looked in them. Those eyes of yours! Well, my little girl, I don't know as they are any more beautiful than they were the first time they looked at me from under that faded sun-bonnet. They took Golden Arrow captive at the first glance."

Her head lay upon his breast.

"Those were strange days," she murmured.

And a sweet silence fell upon both. Up in the horizon of memory crept the herds of bison, whistled the midnight hurricane, rode the shy bands of stealthy savages, crept the long day of solitude and starvation, in which their love first spoke from mute eyes and clinging lips.

Dr. Carollyn admitted himself to the house with his night-key and stepped lightly into the library, with a kiss on his mouth ready for his daughter. He paused, as the tableau vivant of the happy lovers met his gaze; the smile suddenly died out and an awful frown gathered in its stead.

"Annie!"

She started at the cold, crisp word; for an instant she shrunk, then springing up, still clinging to her lover's hand, she said, softly, but with a firmness borrowed from her father's blood:

"This is Nat Wolfe, dear father. He has come back to life and me. You must take both or neither of us!"

"Must!"—humph! it had come to that, had it? That was too bitter a pill for Dr. Carollyn to swallow, albeit it was a favorite prescription of his.

A moment his dark eyes blazed at the young couple standing before him, neither of whose faces flashed less resolute than his own; then turning abruptly upon his heel, without the courtesy of a word to the unwelcome visitor, he retreated to his chamber, and Elizabeth saw no more of him that evening.

Plainly the evil spirit had not been so finally driven out of him as he had hoped. That night he wrestled with it again, in the solitude of his room, knowing well that while he struggled, the child, dearer to him than his own life, must be wetting her pillow with tears which himself alone was causing to flow.

CHAPTER XI.

THE BIRTHDAY AND THE LETTER.

I took the scroll; I could not brook An eye to gaze on it save mine. But oh, to-night, those words of thine Have brought the past before me; The shadows of long-vanished years Are passing sadly o'er me.—Miss Landon.

Dr. Carollyn arose late the next morning; a night of unrest had hardly decided him to obey his better nature. With the breakfast which he ordered in his chamber came two or three packages left at the door that morning from the princely establishments of merchants and jewelers which he had visited the previous day. They were presents for Elizabeth. This very day was her eighteenth birthday; and these were some of the costly gifts he had pleased himself selecting for his daughter.

The blue silk dress—her mother's favorite color—of a new and lovely shade, rich and lustrous; the coronal and necklace of pearls, the cashmere shawl, the dainty perfumes in bottles filagreed with gold—he set the packages before him on the table, not offering to untie them, staring at them coldly, as he trifled with his coffee and toast.

Unreasonable as the black jealousy which had once blotted the sunshine out of that house was the anger with which he thought of the man who had yesterday intruded himself into his new-made Paradise. "Was he never to have any peace?"

We are afraid peace is not purchased with such a temper as yours, Dr. Carollyn.

In the mean time Elizabeth had gone down to the solitary breakfast room, tremulous with love and tears, meaning to throw herself upon her father's breast and speak for Nat the words he was too proud to urge for himself. When she found herself alone at the meal, of course appetite and courage failed; she went to her chamber, and gazed out at the golden sunshine as if it had been a great gray cloud drifting up and obscuring her birthday—her birthday! yes, she was eighteen, and she remembered with a thrill the faded yellow envelope lying carefully locked amid her most precious treasures, which had held for so many years the letter of her dead mother awaiting this very day.

With a reverend touch she now drew forth this missive, and with careful, trembling fingers broke the seal; a mist swam before her eyes as she first gazed at this delicate, indistinct chirography, but it cleared away with the kiss she pressed upon the paper.

Between herself and her father there had never been any explicit understanding as to the melancholy causes of the separation of the parents; the subject was one so painful that it had been avoided, with the confession of Dr. Carollyn that all the fault had been his, and that sometime her child should know all that he could tell her of the life and character of her adored, her angelic mother.

A desire to understand the mystery mingled with the reverent affection with which the young girl began the perusal of the letter:

"My own dear Child—my Daughter:—I tremble while I write the word daughter, for I feel how much sadder, more deadly perilous it will be for my poor orphan, that she is born to the heritage of woman. Before you came to me I prayed that you might be a boy, and if I regret that my prayer was not answered, you will know that my love and solicitude are in proportion to my regret.

"When you read this, if you ever do, you will have come to woman's estate; now, while I write, you sport in the grass and flowers at my feet, scarcely able to balance yourself on the unequal ground, your bright hair blowing about your face in little rings, your eyes trying to catch mine, full of laughter and love, so innocent, so gay—yet, oh God, so like his own—yes, darling, they are his eyes which look at me constantly through my baby's. I stop, to catch you to my heart, to hold you there till you cry with the cruel fondness, and I set you down, and push you softly away—for I would not hurt you even with my love! ah, no! it is so dreadful to love only to be killed by love. It is strange that I love him yet, seeing that he has wronged me in such a manner that I can never go back to him, never have any more happiness or faith; but I do—I do, and the very perfectness with which I loved him makes the impossibility of my ever going back to him again, who gave me my death-blow so pitilessly.

"Yesterday I chanced upon some lines—written by a woman. I know they were—which told my story partly—all but the love—the despair—for it was the hand dearest to me in the world which sent the arrow, and that is what murdered me.

"A whisper woke the air, A soft, light tone, and low, Yet barbed with shame and woe. Ah! might it only perish there, Nor further go! "It was the only heart it found— The only heart 'twas meant to find, When first its accents woke. It reached the gentle heart at last, And that—it broke! "Low as it seemed to other ears, It came a thunder crash to hers— That fragile girl so fair and gay. 'Tis said a lovely humming-bird, That dreaming in a lily lay, Was killed but by the gun's report Some idle boy had fired in sport; So exquisitely frail its frame The very sound a death blow came: And thus her heart, unused to shame— Shrined in its lily too— Her light and happy heart, that beat With love and hope so fast and sweet, When first that cruel word it heard, It fluttered like a frightened bird— Then shut its wings and sighed, And with a silent shudder, died!"

"I was not so happy as that poor girl to die so quickly, but the wound was none the less fatal that it was the more lingering. I thought I could not, would not live—and perhaps it was you, growing in my life and soul, whose expected coming held me back. But I am going now and soon. Now I wish that I were to live. I would be willing to endure years of worse sorrow, for the privilege of shielding my poor little baby flower from the world's harshness. But the desire comes too late. I must leave you, leave my little helpless orphan girl to the mercy of every wind that blows.

"My darling, you will surely think your mother mad or foolish. I began this letter because I could not go away from earth without leaving you some token of the unspeakable tenderness I feel—some message from your mother. And I have only been talking of myself and of griefs with which I should not have saddened your girlish heart.

"It has been a question which I have debated long and anxiously, whether I ought to send you to him upon whom you have a child's claim—whether I have any right to keep you from the name and fortune and the paternal care to which you are entitled. God forgive me if I have chosen wrong—if that which I have suffered has so clouded my vision that it seems better to me that you should take the risk of happiness in this humble, secluded home, rather than in that brilliant sphere which has proved not so bright as it is cold and pitiless.

"Here my soul has never been wounded; here suspicion, distrust, has never been manifest—only the kindness and affection of honest, unsophisticated hearts. Am I wrong, then, in leaving you to such guardianship, sure to be true and unpretending, even though I wrong you out of a more splendid heritage—out of worldly wealth and fictitious tenderness? It seems to me, who have been hurled so suddenly from my pinnacle of bliss, as if the lowest rest were the safest. And who knows?—it might even be if I sent to him the child of our love that he might deny you, my innocent little angel babe, the claim upon him which you have? Would it be more cruel than the wrong he visited upon his wife? No! I will not trust you to him—to your own father, Elizabeth!—though I love him still as completely as the day he led me to our wedding rites.

"But if fate should throw you into his care—if he should seek you and find you and seize upon you as his, absorb you into himself, fatally, as he has me, I will pray to the Heavenly Father, in whose presence I shall be dwelling, that he may never darken your life as he has mine—that he will cherish you, not for his own, but your sake, love you, as your mother loves, self-forgetting, for your happiness and not his own glory. I will pray that that iron will of his, to which I delighted to yield, which I felt only as a band of flowers, because I loved him so, may never tighten about your heart, as it did about mine. I will pray and trust—God will be good to my little orphan girl. I leave you to Him, rather than to any earthly father.

"And now, I have said nothing, can say nothing. Only that I love my child—that I go away from her with a pang which only dying mothers feel—that I will, if it is permitted me, still watch over her from the blue hights of heaven—that I expect to meet her, some happy future day, in the pure eternal city.

"The little mementoes which I shall be able to leave you will be dear to you because they have been dear to your mother. Among them is my wedding-ring. Keep it for your bridal. Good-by, my daughter—it is so hard to say good-by.

"If it should prove, by the time you read these words, that you have found your father, I need not tell you to love him, for none can help that; you will be a good daughter; but, if he stands between you and happiness, plead with him, for my sake, to deal gently with my child. And so, again, good-by. God bless and keep you, my darling. Good-by. You will come to me sometime, after you have done with this brief world. Till then, God will be with my child.

"Your mother, "Annie St. John Carollyn."

Elizabeth's tears were dropping upon the faded letter—that wayward, fond, not overly-wise letter which had evidently torn itself out of the mother's heart, whether she would or not, and written itself down, without thought of wisdom or plan. And yet, as by some strange, prophetic foreboding, had she not pictured forth the future precisely as it now stood?

Again and again she read the passage:

"If he should seek you and find you and seize upon you as his, absorb you fatally into himself, as he has me, I will pray to the Heavenly Father," etc.; and as she brooded over it, her tears ceased to fall, a light came into her face, and she whispered, looking up:

"My dear mother is praying for me now; she is watching over me, softening my father's pride, blessing our love—yes! she approves my love for Nat—she will plead our cause. I will not go proudly away from my father, as I intended, when he so insulted my lover last night. I will take him my mother's letter, and that shall be our peacemaker."

With the letter in her hand she went to her father's door; but her knock remained unanswered. She had not heard him leave the house, and stood irresolute, half-minded to intrude, without being bidden, into his presence. While she hesitated, the door of the room adjoining was partially unclosed. She looked up in surprise, for it was the chamber forever closed, into which she had not been permitted to look since she entered the house—the chamber where only the master went, alone, at night, to surround himself with ghosts of the past—her mother's bridal-chamber.

"Come in here, Annie!"

She hardly knew her father's voice, oppressed with emotions which his pride endeavored to subdue; but she caught a glimpse of his face, troubled, and wet with tears, and she sprung forward, forgetful in an instant of her own wishes, flinging her arms about his neck. Softly he closed the door, and the two were in the apartment, haunted by the long-vanished presence of one, the young, the beautiful, the happy—the dead wife and mother—the tragic close of whose brief dream of bliss had overshadowed the luxury and beauty of this spot with a darkness which could be lifted in this world—"nevermore!"

Timidly Elizabeth looked around, moved by a curiosity that was all reverence and love. The blinds of one window were flung open and the sunshine burst through, melting into the amber drapery of the heavy silk curtains like topazes into gold. Save that the furniture was kept scrupulously free from dust, proving the frequency of her father's visits, scarcely an article seemed to have been moved from its place in all those years. Curtains of amber silk corresponding with those of the windows draped the bed, faded by time, but otherwise unchanged. The party-dress which the bride had worn that fatal evening, lay across the pillows where she had thrown it when she exchanged it for the traveling suit in which she made her escape. The little satin slippers of the same color as the dress, stood side by side on the carpet near by. The sight of these touched the young girl beyond all else; she sprung to them, took them up, kissed and pressed them to her bosom, all unreflecting of the pang the impulsive action inflicted on another, until a sound like that of a strangled sob, caused her to replace them, and return to Dr. Carollyn, who had sunk into the chair nearest him—her favorite chair, a dainty, cushioned thing of amber satin brocade, well fitted for a lady's chamber.

"Dear father," she said, holding his hand, and looking into his eyes with a love which ought to have satisfied him.

"Yet you wish to throw me away—you love another better than me," were the words he said.

He had not meant to say them; he had come into that room for the purpose of obtaining complete mastery over the tyrannous part of himself, and he thought had conquered it forever; and he had no more than said them, before he was ashamed, adding quickly:

"I do not blame you for it, little one. I shall not oppose you—only I have had you such a brief time to myself. Is it strange I was disconcerted to find myself put away so soon?"

"Not put away, dear father—not loved any less, but rather more than ever. Oh, father, I know you will not condemn a happiness which you once knew so sweet. Do you know I am eighteen to-day? I have been reading my mother's letter; here it is—read it, too, will you not?"

She thrust it into his trembling hand; she dared not look at him, but went and sat at the window while he read.

The silence was long and oppressive; at length she ventured to turn to her father, and saw him sitting motionless, with bowed head, great tears rolling silently down his face and dropping upon the paper clutched in his hand. She stole to his feet, knelt, and clasped her hands over his knee, looking up at him with a glance full of sympathy and confidence—she trusted to the power of the mother up in heaven who had said that she should watch over her at this crisis.

"She knew me better than I knew myself," muttered the proud man; "I do not wonder that she wanted to hide you away from my selfishness, Annie."

"Yet she loved you so, through it all," murmured the young girl.

"She did. The letter is like herself—her goodness is more than I can bear. But it is not too late for me to prove myself worthy of that love yet. No, my child, I will not wring the life out of your warm young heart with this steely will of mine. Where is this lover of yours? Send for him. Be he bear or buffalo, wild Indian or adventurer, he shall be my son. You shall share with him all that I have to give."

"He is neither bear nor buffalo," cried Elizabeth, smiling through her tears. "If you will only take a good look at him, papa, you will see what he is—you will not be ashamed of him."

"Pshaw!" muttered Dr. Carollyn, rising, and shaking himself. "But where did you say he could be sent for, little one?"

"At the Metropolitan, I am quite sure he said."

"No doubt of it, then. Come, I will send Pomp with an invitation, in my own name, for him to dine with us this evening. Come into my room, and while I am writing the note you can be examining these parcels, which seem to be directed to you."

They passed out into his bedchamber, and while he quietly indited quite a lengthy note, for an invitation to dinner, Elizabeth untied the precious packages one by one. It was not the beauty and splendor of these birthday presents, however delightful these were, which gave that rich bloom to her cheek, that lustrous gladness to her eyes. One stolen glance at her radiant countenance half repaid her father for the sacrifice he was making.

That was a memorable evening in the household calendar. When the three sat down to the repast—which, in honor both of the birthday and the betrothal, was served with the most sumptuous appointments of which the establishment was capable—the haughty physician, divesting himself of the ugly green spectacles of jealousy, looked at his guest with fair, appreciative eyes. He was forced to admit that this great, overgrown, self-willed son of his was no unfit match for his daughter; in fact, that he was really a magnificent man, with brain and talent enough for half a dozen; and, what he liked better than all else, with self-respect enough to know and maintain his rights.

"No danger of my hurting him with my iron will," smiled Dr. Carollyn to his own thought, as he measured the strength of his whilom antagonist, but now friend and son.

And he liked the idea—for proud people respect pride in others; and, since Annie would fall in love and be married, he could not remember any young man in the whole circle of his acquaintance, who, all things considered, was so satisfactory.

So he made himself very agreeable at that little dinner; and after it was over, and they had talked together awhile in the library, he made an excuse to withdraw to his own room, leaving the young girl showing her gifts to her lover, and the two were alone with their happy hopes.

Youth and beauty, and love and peace—let us leave them upon the threshold of the promised future. We can see the light which shines out of the opening door; the twain step over and disappear in the enchanted atmosphere within.

THE END.

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