III.—THE LAST NIGHT OF THE OLD YEAR.

All her life she had longed for personal beauty; she loved every beautiful thing and she wanted to love her own face. It was Ralph Towne’s perfect face that had drawn her to him, his voice, and his eyes, like the woods in October.

She had studied her face times enough by lamplight and sunlight to know it thoroughly, but she could not discover the sweetness that Miss Jewett saw, or the intelligence that delighted her father; she could find without much searching the freckles on her nose, the shortness of her upper lip, the two slight marks that infantile chicken-pox had dented into her forehead, the upward tendency of her nose, and the dimple that was only half a dimple in her chin.

She was as pretty and as homely as any of the fair, blue-eyed girls in Dunellen or elsewhere: with lips that shaped themselves with every passing feeling; with eyes that could grow so bright and dark that one could forget how bright they were; with the palest of chestnut hair, worn high or low, as the little world of Dunellen demanded; with hands slight and characteristic; a figure neither tall nor slender, but perfectly proportioned, rounded and graceful; arrayed as neatly and becomingly as she could be on her limited allowance, usually in plain colors, often in black of a soft texture with a ribbon of some pale tint at her throat and among her braids. A stranger might have taken her for any one of the twenty-three girls in Miss Jewett’s Bible class; that is any one of the blue-eyed ones who wore gray vails and gray walking suits.

But you and I know better.

With her self-depreciation she was one thing that she was not likely to guess—the prettiest talker in the world.

Felix Harrison had told Miss Jewett so years ago.

“I haven’t any accomplishments,” she often sighed.

“You do not need any,” Mr. Hammerton had once said.

One morning in December she chanced upon a bundle of old letters in one of Dinah’s drawers, they were written during the winter that she had spent in the city two years ago.

She drew one from its envelope; it was dated December 22, just two years ago to-day; she ran through it eagerly. How often she had remembered that day as an era; the beginning of the best things in her uneventful life! The second perusal was more slow. “I have seen somebody new; he is a friend of Aunt Dinah’s, or his mother is, or was. Don’t you remember that handsome house near Mayfield, just above Laura’s? When they were building it, Laura and I used to speculate as to whom it belonged, and wonder if it would make any difference to us. She said she would marry the son (for of course there would be a handsome and learned son) and that I should come to live with her forever; and Felix said that he would buy it for me, some day; you and I used to play that we owned it but that we preferred to live nearer Dunellen and had left it in charge of our housekeeper! How often when the former owner was in Europe, I have stood outside the gates and peered in and planned how happy we would all be there. Father should rest and read, and enjoy all the beautiful walks and the woods and the streams in the meadow with the rustic bridge, and mother should have a coach and four, and you and Gus and I would have it all.

“All this preamble is to introduce the fact that the somebody new is the owner of Old Place. Isn’t that an odd name? I don’t like it; I should call it Maplewood; in the autumn it is nothing but one glory of maple. His mother named it and they have become accustomed to its queerness. His mother is wintering with a relative, an invalid, I believe; I think that she has taken the invalid to Florida and the son (the father died long ago) has come to spend the winter in the city. They say he is wise and learned (I do not see any evidence of it, however), but he certainly is a veritable Tawwo Chikwo, the beauty of the world. Get out my old Lavengro and read about him.

“He is almost as dark as a gypsy, too, his eyes are the brownest and sunniest. I never saw such eyes (a sunbeam was lost one day and crept into his eyes for a home), his hair, beard, and mustache are as brown as his eyes; as brown, but not at all bright.

“He looks like a big boy, but Aunt Dinah says that he is in the neighborhood of thirty; his life has left no trace in his face, or perhaps all that brown hair covers the traces of discipline. His manner is gentleness and dignity united. But he can’t talk. Or perhaps he won’t.

“His replies (he ventures nothing else) are simple, good, kind, and above all, sincere. I have a feeling that I shall believe every word he says. That is something new for me, too. He doesn’t think much of me. He likes to hear me talk though; I have made several bright remarks for the pleasure of the sunbeam in his eyes.

“If I were his mother I should be sorry to do or say any thing to frighten it away.

“I know that he has never been in love; he could not be such a dear, grave, humorous, gentle, dignified, stupid big boy if some girl had shaken him up.

“If he were the talker that Gus Hammerton is, I should go into raptures over him. He is a doctor, too, but he has not begun practice; he has been travelling with his mother. Is it not lovely to be rich enough to do just what you like?

“Tell Gus that I will answer his letter sometime; you may let him read this if you like.”

This letter she tore into atoms; she glanced over the others to find Ralph Towne’s name; not once did she find it.

“I will do something to commemorate this anniversary,” she thought. “I will drop his photograph into the fire, and tear the fly-leaf out of the Mrs. Browning he gave me.”

Her name and his initials were all that was written in the book; very carefully she cut out the entire page.

“Why, child! have you seen a ghost?” her mother exclaimed, meeting her in the hall.

“Yes, but it was only a ghost; there was nothing real about it.”

That afternoon, having some sewing to do for her father, she betook herself to the chilliness of the parlor grate; her mother was in a fault-find frame of mind and Tessa’s nerves were ready to be set on edge at the least provocation.

That parlor! She would have wept over its shabbiness had she ever been able to find tears for such purposes. Wheeling an arm-chair near enough to the grate to be made comfortable by all the heat there was, she placed her feet on the fender and folded her hands over the work in her lap. It was a raw day, the sky over Mr. Bird’s house was unsympathetic, the bare branches in the apple orchard stretched out in all directions stiff and dry as if they were never to become green again; the outlook was not cheering, the inlook was little more so; but how could she wish for any thing more than her father was able to give his three dear girls!

This room had seemed pretty to her in the summer when the windows were open and she could have flowers everywhere; Ralph Towne always spoke of her flowers, and he had more than once leaned back in that worn green arm-chair opposite hers, as if that stiff, low room were the place of all places that he loved to be in. In dreary contrast with his own home, how poor and tasteless this home must be! How the carpet must stare up at him with its bunches of flowers and leaves upon its faded gray ground; how plain the white shades must appear after curtains of real lace; how worn and yellowish the green rep of the black-walnut furniture; how few the books in the small bookcase; and the photographs and engravings upon the walls, how they must shock him! How meagre and coarse her dress must be to him after his mother’s rich attire!

She despised herself for pitying herself!

Sue Greyson said that Old Place was fairy-land, but in her catalogue of its attractions she had omitted the spacious library; his “den,” Mr. Towne called it. In Tessa’s imagination he was ever in that room buried among its treasures.

Was her photograph in that room? What had he done with it? Where was he keeping it? How he had coaxed for it! She had had it taken unwillingly; it was altogether too much like giving herself away; but when she could refuse no longer she had given it to him. A vignette with all herself in it; too much of herself for him to understand; what would he do with it now? Burn it, perhaps, as she had burned his; but he would not be burning a ghost, it was her own self, that he had thrown away.

“I should have despised myself forever if I had not believed in him and been true,” she reasoned. “I would rather trust in a lie than not believe the truth. And how could I know that he was not true!”

She took up her work and began to sew, her reverie running on and running away with her; an ottoman stood near her, she had laid needlework and scissors upon it: how many associations there were clustering around it! It was an ugly looking thing, too; her mother had worked the cover one winter years ago when she was kept in by a cough; the wreath of roses was so unlike roses, and the parrot that was poised in the centre of the wreath, on a brown twig, was so ungainly! One night—how long ago it was—before she had ever seen Ralph Towne, Felix Harrison had been seated upon it while he told her with such a warm, shy glance that he never slept without praying for her. And Ralph Towne had scattered his photographs over it, and asked her to choose from among them, saying, “I should not have had them taken but for you.”

The ugly old parrot was dear after all.

“I wonder,” she soliloquized, taking slow stitches, “if having lost faith in a person, it can ever be brought back again? If he should come and say that he has been wrong—”

The gate clicked, in an instant she was on her feet, had he come to confess himself in the wrong? Oh, how she would forgive and forget! And trust him?

The tall thin figure had a stoop in its shoulders, Ralph Towne was erect; the overcoat was carelessly worn, revealing a threadbare vest and loose black necktie; it was only Dr. Lake, Dr. Greyson’s new partner.

She had been drawn to him the first moment of their meeting. As soon as he had left after his first call, she had said to Dinah: “I never felt so towards any one before; I shall be so sorry for him to go away where I can not follow him; I want to put my arms around him and coax him to be good.”

“How do you know that he isn’t good?”

“I do know it. I do not know how I know. He hasn’t any ‘women folks’ either. He is as sensitive to every change in one’s voice as the thermometer is to changes in the atmosphere. I never saw any one like him before. When I make a collection of curiosities I find in Human Nature, I shall certainly take him for one of the rarest and most interesting. It would not take two minutes to convert him from the inquisitor to the martyr at the stake. I feel as if he were a little child crying with a thorn in his finger, and he had no mother to take it out.”

“He was only here fifteen minutes and he was as full of fun as he could be; he ran down the piazza, and he whistled while he was unhitching his horse, and began to sing as he drove off. Oh, you are so funny! you hear a man talk slang—he is equal to Sue Greyson for that—ask mother about her cough, tell a funny story, and then think his heart is breaking with a thorn in his finger.”

Tessa would not laugh. “I want him to stay; I don’t want ever to lose him.”

“Isn’t he ugly? Such a tall, square forehead. Did you ever see such a forehead?”

“My first thought of him was, ‘oh, how homely you are.’”

But that first thought never recurred; she was too much attracted by his rapid, easy utterance and sensitive voice to remember his plain face and careless attire.

She resumed her sewing with a new train of thought and had forgotten Dr. Lake’s entrance, when Bridget came to the door with a request from Mrs Wadsworth; opening the door of the sitting-room, she found her mother leaning back in her sewing chair with a plaintive and childish expression, and Dr. Lake playing with her spools of silk, sitting in a careless attitude of perfect grace at her side. Tessa was sorry to have the picture spoiled by his rising to greet her.

“Ralph Towne, M.D.,” he was replying, “he was born with a gold spoon in his pretty mouth! It would have been better for him if it had been silver-plated like mine. Quit? He’s a mummy, a cloister, a tomb! I do not quarrel with any man’s calling,” he continued, winding the black silk around his fingers, “circumstances have made me a physician. Calling! It means something only when circumstances have nothing to do with it.”

“Read the lives of the world’s best workers,” said Tessa.

“A glass of water, an empty glass, and a spoon, if you please, Miss Tessa. Do you remember—I have forgotten his name—but I assure you that I am not concocting the story—he rose to eminence in the medical profession, several rounds higher in the ladder of fame than I expect to climb—and his mind was drawn towards medicine when he was a youngster by the display of gold lace that his father’s physician flung into the eyes of the world. Gold lace made that boy a famous doctor.” Tessa brought the glasses and the water; in a leisurely manner he counted a certain number of spoonfuls of water into the empty glass. “I’m a commonplace fellow! I’m not one of the world’s workers! Neither is Ralph Towne! To have an easy life and not do much harm is the most I hope for in this world; as for the next, who knows anything about that? I say, ‘Your tongue, please,’ and drop medicine and make powders all day long for my bread and butter. I have no faith in medicine.”

“Then you are an impostor! You shall never see even the tip of my tongue.”

He laughed as if it were such fun to laugh.

“What is medicine to you?” he asked after counting forty drops from a vial into the water. “A woman in a crowd once touched the border of a certain garment and through faith was healed; so I take the thing that He has ordained for healing, all created things are His garment; through His garment I come nearer to Him and am healed.”

Mrs. Wadsworth looked annoyed. “So I may take cream instead of cod liver oil, doctor.”

“If you prefer it,” he answered carelessly. “Miss Tessa, you are a Mystic.”

Tessa liked to watch the motion of his fingers; his hands were small, shapely, and every movement of them struck her as an apt quotation. She was learning as much of himself from his hands as from his face.

“Now I must go and scold Felix Harrison,” he said rising. “A teaspoonful in a wineglass of water three times a day, Mrs. Wadsworth! He had an attack last night and cheated me out of my dreams. Do you know him, Mystic? If he do not leave off brain work he will make a fool of himself. A gold spoon would not have hurt him.”

He turned suddenly facing Tessa as they stood alone in the hall; he was seriousness itself now; a look of care had settled over his features. He was not a “big boy,” he was a man, undisciplined, it is true, but a man to whom life meant many disappointments and hard work.

“What is the matter with you? Do you ever go to sleep? If you do not give up thinking and take to nonsense and novels, I shall be called to take you through a nervous fever. Mind, I am in earnest. Don’t spend too much time in washing the disciples’ feet either; it is very charming to be St. Theresa, but you are not strong enough.”

“Thank you. I am well. Is Sue at home?”

“No, she stays at Old Place until her knight departs. He had better go soon or I shall meet him in the woods. Alone. At midnight. What is he trifling with her for? Does he intend to marry her?”

Was this his thorn? Could he love a shallow girl like Sue Greyson?

“Ought we to talk about her?” she asked gently.

“You are her friend. You are older than she is. She will not listen to me. Her father takes no more care of her than he does of you.”

“She has not cared for me lately.”

“She does care for you. You must pull her through this. Towne made a fool of a girl I know—she is married, though; it didn’t smash her affections very deep; married rich, too. But it will be a pity for Sue to have a heartache all for nix; she is a guileless piece; I would be sorry for her to have a disappointment.”

“Motherless children are always taken care of,” she answered trying to speak lightly.

In the twilight she sat alone at the parlor grate; it was beginning to rain; through the mist the lights in kitchen and parlor opposite were gleaming; Dinah and Bridget were laughing in the basement; a quick, hard cough, then her father’s voice in a concerned tone sounded through the stillness.

Why was she feeling lonely and as if her heart would break, unless somebody should come, or unless somebody gave her something, or unless something happened? In story-books, when one was in such a mood, in a misty twilight something always happened.

Why were there not such strong helpers in her life as women in books always found? Compared with the grand, good, winning lover in books, what were the men she knew? Why, Dr. Lake was frivolous, Felix Harrison weak, Gus Hammerton practical and pedantic, and Mr. Towne heartless and stupid!

“Gus is here,” said Dinah, her head appearing at the door, “and he has brought you a book! But I’m going to read it first.”

“Well, I’ll come,” she answered. But she did not go for half an hour; Mr. Hammerton took the new book to her immediately and talked to her until her pale cheeks were in a glow.

The last day of the year, what a day it was!

It was like a mellow day in October; in the afternoon Tessa found herself wandering through Mayfield; as she sauntered past the school-house a voice arrested her, one of the voices that she knew best in the world. She stood near the entrance listening.

That thrilling pathetic voice; it had never touched her as it touched her to-day.

“Old year, you shall not die; We did so laugh and cry with you, I’ve half a mind to die with you, Old year, if you must die.”

She stood but a moment, the voice read on, but she did not care to listen; she went on at a slow pace, enjoying each step of the way past the barren fields lying warm and brown in the sunlight, past the farm-houses, past the low-eaved homestead of the Harrisons, past the iron gates of the Old Place with the voice in her ears and the sigh for the old year in her heart. She almost wished that she could love Felix Harrison; she had refused him five times since her seventeenth birthday and in May she would be twenty-five! He had said that he would never ask her again. Why should she wish for any change to come into her life? If she might always live in the present, she would be content; she had her father and mother and Dine and Gus; her world was broad enough.

The sound of wheels had been pursuing her; a sudden stoppage, then another voice that she knew called to her, “Miss Tessa, will you ride with me?”

“Perhaps you are not going my way,” she said lightly.

“I am going to Dunellen.” He answered her words only.

As soon as they were seated in the carriage, she said very gravely, “I wrote you a letter last night, but I burned it this morning.”

“I am sorry for that.”

The words came out with a gasp and a jerk; she did not know that words could choke like that, but she was glad as soon as she had spoken. “Mr. Towne, are you engaged to Sue Greyson?”

“Engaged! And to Sue Greyson!”

“I did not ask to be saucy—I did not believe it—but don’t be heartless—don’t be cruel—don’t be stupid, do think about her, and don’t let her die of shame.”

“Excuse me, Miss Tessa. Why should you talk to me about Sue Greyson?”

“I knew that you would not understand.”

“Perhaps you can explain.”

“I can’t explain; you ought to know.”

“What ought I to know?” he queried, looking down at her with the sunshine in his eyes.

“It seems mean in me to tell you such a thing, but I do not know of any other way for your sake and hers. I would do any thing to keep you from doing a heartless thing.”—Another heartless thing, she almost said.—“I would do any thing for Sue, as I would for Dine if she had been led into trusting in a lie.”

His face became perplexed, uncomprehending.

“Are you trying to tell me that Sue Greyson thinks that I am intending to marry her and that I have given her an occasion to believe it? You are warning me against trifling with Sue?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know that she thinks so?”

“Nonsense! How do I know any thing?”

“I should as soon have thought—” he ended with a laugh.

“A woman’s heart is not made of grains of sand to be blown hither and thither by a man’s breath,” she said very earnestly.

“Miss Tessa, you accuse me wrongfully. I have been kind to Sue—I have intended to be kind. Her life at home is too quiet for her, she has few friends and no education; you call me heartless. I thought that I was most brotherly and thoughtful.”

His sincerity almost reassured her. Had she misjudged him?

“I beg your pardon,” she said, after an uncomfortable pause. “I did not know that Old Place was a monastery and that you were a monk. If you are speaking sincerely, you are the most stupid human being that ever breathed; if you are not sincere, you are too wily for me to understand.”

The color rose to his forehead, but he was silent.

“Mr. Towne! Excuse me. I am apt to speak too strongly; but I care so much for Sue. She is only a child in her experiences; she has no fore-thought, she trusts every body, and she thinks that you are so good and wonderful. She does not understand any thing but sincerity. Will you think about her?”

“I will.”

She was almost frightened, was he angry?

“Are you angry with me?” she asked, laying her hand on his arm. “You can not misinterpret me; I don’t want Sue to be hurt, and I do not want you to be capable of hurting her.”

“I understand you, Miss Tessa.”

He spoke gently; her heart was at rest again.

“You say that you can not understand whether I am wily or sincere?”

“I can not understand.”

“Neither can I. But I think that I am sincere!”

“And please be careful how you change your attitude towards her; you are unconventional enough to refuse a woman upon the slightest pretext. I know that you will say ‘I regret exceedingly, Miss Sue, that you have misinterpreted my friendly attentions.’”

“I would like to; I think many things that I do not speak, Miss Tessa.”

“Your head and heart would echo a perpetual silence if you did not,” she laughed. “The Sphinx is a chatterbox compared to you.”

As they drove up under the maple-trees before the low iron gate, he said, “Has this year been a happy year to you? Do you sleep well?”

“Wouldn’t you like to look at my tongue and feel my pulse?” she returned in her lightest tone.

“Will you not answer me?” he asked gravely.

“This year has been the best year of my life.”

“So has it been my best year. This winter I shall decide several things pertaining to my future; it is my plan to practice for awhile—and not marry!”

Were those last words for her? Discomfited and wounded—oh, how wounded!—her lips refused to speak.

“Good-by,” she said, just touching his hand.

He turned as he was driving off and lifted his hat, the sunshine of his eyes fell full upon her; her smile was but a pitiful effort; what right had he to say such a thing to her?

“I hope,” she said, as she walked up the path, “that I shall never see you again.”

“I wish that I had never seen her,” he ejaculated, touching his horse with the whip.

And thus a part of the old year died and was buried.

Shaking with cold, not daring to go away by herself, she irresolutely turned the knob of the sitting-room door; her face, she was aware, was not in a state to be taken before her mother’s critical eyes; but her heart was so crushed, she pitied herself with such infinite compassion, that she longed for some one to speak to her kindly, to touch her as if they loved her; any thing to take some of the aching away from that place in her heart where the tears were frozen.

When she needed any mothering she gave it to herself; with her arms around her shivering, shrinking self, she was beseeching, “Be brave; it’s almost over.”

In the old days, the impulsive little Tessa had always chided herself; the sensitive little Tessa had always comforted herself; the truthful, eager, castle-building little Tessa had always been her own refuge, shield, adviser, and best comforter.

With more bosom friends than she knew how to have confidences with, with more admiring girl friends than she could find a place for, with more hearts open to her than to any one girl at school, Tessa the child, Tessa the maiden, and Tessa the woman had always lived within herself, leaned upon herself.

Mr. Hammerton said that she was a confutation of the oak and vine theory, that he had stood and stood to be entwined about, but that she would never entwine.

In this moment, standing at the door, with her hand upon the knob, a ray of comfort shone into her heart and nestled there like a gleam of sunlight peering through an opening in an under-growth, and the ray of comfort was, that, perhaps Gus Hammerton would come to-night and talk to her in his kindly, practical, unsentimental fashion, sympathizing with her unspoken thoughts, and tender towards the feelings of whose existence he was unaware.

Perhaps—but of late, did she fancy, or was it true? that he was rather shy with her, and dropped into the chair nearest to Dinah.

Well! she could be alone by and by and go to sleep!

So relentless was she, in that instant toward Ralph Towne that it would have been absolute relief could she have looked into his dead face: to see the cold lids shut down fast over the sunshiny eyes, to know that the stiff lips could never open to speak meaningless words, to touch his head and feel assured that, warm and soft, his fingers could never hold hers again.

“Why, Tessa, you look frozen to death,” exclaimed her mother. “How far did you go and where did you meet Mr. Towne?”

“I went to Mayfield,” she closed the door and moved towards the gay little figure reading “The Story of Elizabeth” upon the lounge. “Mr. Towne overtook me after I had passed Old Place.”

“O, Tessa,” cried Dinah, dropping her book, “Dr. Lake was here. What a pity you were out! He asked where ‘Mystic’ was. I made a list on the cover of my book of the things that he talked about. Just hear them. One ought to understand short-hand to keep up with him. Now listen.”

Tessa stood and listened.

“‘The Valley of the Dog, “‘The Car of Juggernaut, “‘Insanity, “‘Intemperance, “‘Tobacco, “‘Slavery, “‘Church and State, “‘Conceit, “‘Surgery, “‘The English Government, “‘Marriage, “‘Flirtations, “‘Ladies as Physicians, “‘The Wicked World, “‘A Quotation from Scott.’

“And that isn’t half. I began to grow interested there, and forgot to write.”

“Where did the professional call come in?”

“Oh, that doesn’t take a second. He watches his patient while he talks! Oh, and he told two hospital stories, a story of his school life, and about being lost in the woods, and about a camp-meeting! He is from Mississippi. Your Mr. Towne couldn’t say so much in ten years.”

“He says that the disease in my lungs is not progressive, but that I should protect my health! I ought to spend every winter in the West Indies or in the south of Europe! South of Europe, indeed! On your father’s business! Now if I had married John Gesner I might have spent my winters in any part of the civilized world.”

“Would you have taken us?” asked Dinah.

“The future is veiled from us mercifully.”

Dinah laughed. “Mother, you forget about love.”

“Love!” exclaimed Mrs. Wadsworth scornfully, “I should like to know what love is.”

“Father knows,” said Dinah. “Have you read ‘Elizabeth,’ Tessa?”

“Yes.”

“I’d die before I’d act as she did, wouldn’t you? I’d die before I’d let any body know that I cared for him more than he cared for me, wouldn’t you?”

“It isn’t so easy to die.”

“Did Mr. Towne speak of Sue Greyson?” inquired Mrs. Wadsworth.

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing—much?”

“He must have said something. Couldn’t you judge of his feelings towards her?”

“I am not a detective.”

“H’m,” ejaculated Mrs. Wadsworth, glancing up at the uneasy lips, “if he can’t talk or sing, he can say something.”

“Possibly.”

Standing alone at one of the windows in her chamber, she watched the sun go down the last night of the old year.

In her young indignation, she had called Ralph Towne some harsh names; while under the fascination of his presence, she had thought that she did not blame him for any thing; but standing alone with the happy, false old year behind her, and the new, empty year opening its door into nowhere, she cried, with a voiceless cry: “You are not true; you are not sincere; you are shallow and selfish.”

At this moment, watching the same sunset, for he had an appreciation of pretty things, he was driving homeward almost as nerve-shaken as Tessa herself; according to his measure, he was regretting that these two trusting women were suffering because of his—he did not call it selfishness—he had been merely thoughtless.

Tessa’s heart could kindle and glow and burn itself out into white ashes before his would feel the first tremor of heat; she had prided herself upon being a student of human nature, but this man in his selfishness, his slowness, his simplicity, had baffled her.

How could she be a student of human nature if she understood nothing but truth?

She was in a bitter mood to-night, not sparing Ralph Towne as she would not have spared herself. The crimson and gold faded! the gray shut down over her world: “How alone I shall be to live in a year without him!”

“O, Tessa! Tessa!” cried Dinah, running up-stairs, “here’s Gus, and he has brought us something good and funny I know, for he’s so provokingly cool.”

How could she think thoughts about the old year and the sunset with this practical friend down-stairs and a mysterious package that must mean books! She had expected to cry herself to sleep; instead she read Dickens with Mr. Hammerton until the new year was upon them.

“Gus,” she said severely, with the volumes of Dickens piled in her arms up to her chin, “if I become matter-of-fact, practical, and commonplace there will be no one in the world to thank but you. I had a poem at my finger tips about the old year that would have forever shattered the fame of Tennyson and Longfellow.”

“As we have lost it, we’ll be content with them,” he said. “Drop your books and let us read them.”

Before the dawn she was dreaming and weeping in her sleep, for a voice was repeating, not the voice in the school-house, nor the voice that had read Longfellow, but the voice that had spoken the cold good-by at the gate:

“The leaves are falling, falling, Solemnly and slow; Caw! Caw! the rooks are calling, It is a sound of woe, A sound of woe!”