Chapter XIV

"Do you come with the heart of your childhood back,
The free, the pure, the kind?
Thus murmured the trees in the homeward track,
As they played at the sport of the wind."

The autumn evening stole calmly, sweetly on. Again October's harvest moon rode through the liquid ether, and poured her silvery beams over the wild, old forest of Scraggiewood, as we saw it long ago when Annie Evalyn's years were calm and golden-hued as Luna's gentle rays. She was coming now to the low, cottage home. With weary, languid step, she threaded the old, familiar path, and it seemed to have grown rougher, and the forest looked wilder and darker than in the days gone by. Poor Annie! the darkness and gloom were in thy weary, world-tossed heart. That heart beat wildly as she drew nearer the wished-for spot. What if she should see no light gleaming through the aperture in the rocky walls? What if the door should be fallen away, and no aunty there to welcome the wanderer's return? She quickened her pace, and a few moments banished all fears. The cottage came in view, and a bright light streamed through the rough-cut window. Now Annie clasped her hands, and thanked God that her journey was well-nigh ended. She saw her aunt bending over the embers on the hearth, as she paused a moment on the threshold. Then, entering softly, she stole to the side of the old lady, and, passing an arm round her neck, whispered in a low, trembling tone: "Here's Annie, come home to love and you, dear aunty."

The old woman sprang so suddenly from her kneeling posture as nearly to throw the slender form upon the floor, and gazed wildly in the speaker's face.

"Why aunty, don't you know me?"

"Bless me, it is her voice! but how could she rise up here on my hearth-stone to-night, like a witch or fairy?"

"No, aunty; I am no witch or fairy that has risen on your hearth. I walked all the way through the dim old forest to reach you, and it looks just as it used to, only darker and more frightful."

"Come here, darling, 'tis you! I know that voice. O how many times I've dreamed I heard it in the long, lonesome nights!" and she wept, laughed, and kissed her recovered child in a perfect abandonment of joy. "And so you have come home at last to see your old aunty? I've had awful feelings about you lately, hinney, and boding dreams; and ofttimes I've been sorry I let you go into the evil world; 'for if it should use her hard, would it not break both our hearts?' I said to myself. 'But, then, Annie is so pretty and good, and has got so much book-learnin' and so many accomplishments,' something would say. 'Ay, that's the mischief of it. Such things always make bad folks envy those that possess them, and Annie is so tender-hearted and shrinking, I'm afeard, I'm afeard for her.'"

Annie sunk her head on her aunt's shoulder while she was speaking thus, and the tears, she had been striving to suppress since her entrance, began to roll over her cheeks thick and fast. The excitement and anxiety of the journey had in a measure diverted her mind from the events which caused it; but now that she had gained the wished-for haven, her aunty's words brought the past before her vision; that mortifying humiliation--all she had enjoyed, all she had hoped for, and O, all she had lost!--rushed upon her recollection, and she sobbed aloud.

"O, mercy, mercy, it is as I feared!" exclaimed the old woman, in an agonized tone; "something has hurt my darling, and now I mark how pale and thin she is grown. Annie, Annie, tell your aunty what's the matter."

Annie made a strong effort to calm her emotion.

"I am fatigued and overcome," she said.

"Ah! it is something more than that, child--I can tell; but you shall rest till to-morrow. I'll make you a nice cup of tea, and then you shall lie in your little cot-bed once more. I've always kept it dressed white and clean, and often been in there nights before I laid my old bones down to rest, and wished I could see my darling there, breathing long and sweet, as she used to, in happy dreams."

Annie was glad to retire, for she was indeed fatigued. Her aunt tucked the counterpane snugly around her, and hung a shawl before the window, "for hinney looked too pale and slender to bear the cold air now," she said. Then she insisted on sitting by the cot till her darling slept; but Annie begged she would not.

"Go to bed, aunty, and get a good sleep, so as to be rested and fresh to hear a long tale of my adventures to-morrow," and the kind old soul, after kissing the white brow, bade Annie good-night, and sought her pillow.

It was long ere Annie slept, and when at last she did so, hideous shapes and direful omens floated through her dreams. Once she awoke, when all was dark and still, to find a burning fever on her cheek, and dull, throbbing pain in her temples. At peep of dawn the old woman rose and stole into the apartment. She wanted to see her little pet sleeping in her cot-bed, as she used to years before. There she lay, her arms thrown above her head as when a child, and the rich chestnut curls lying in dark relief on the snowy pillow. But the deep, sweet respirations, and the healthful glow of childhood were not there. A blue circle surrounded the closed lids, and a fever-flush burned in the centre of each cheek. The aunt saw her darling was ill. She took one thin, hot hand in hers, and felt the pulse fluttering fast and wild. The sleeper woke and started up, turning her eyes quickly round the apartment.

"Don't you know where you are, Annie?" asked the aunt. "This is your old room at Scraggiewood, and I'm your aunty."

"O, yes! I remember now; but I think I'm sick, my poor head aches and throbs so badly. You used to cure all my pains, aunty."

"I hope I can cure you now, hinney. I'll go and prepare you a cooling drink of herbs. You must be very quiet, and I trust you will be well in a few days."

Annie submitted patiently. A week passed by ere she was able to make her aunt fully acquainted with her woful tale. The poor woman seemed as much afflicted as Annie, but she strove by every means in her power to soothe and comfort the suffering heart. Netta Gray had been married to George Wild a few weeks before her return, and was now absent on a visiting tour, and Annie's health continued feeble. It could hardly be otherwise with a mind so heavy and depressed. For several months she remained in seclusion at the lowly cot in Scraggiewood.