Chapter XXVI

Never his worldly lot, or worldly state torments him: Less he would like, if less his God had sent him. FLETCHER.

Winthrop had taken no little charge upon himself in the charge of his little sister. In many ways. He had a scanty purse, and it better bore the demands of one than of two; but that was only a single item. Winnie was not a charge upon his purse alone, but upon his heart and his head and his time. The demands were all met, to the full.

As much as it was possible, in the nature of Winthrop's business, his sister had him with her; and when he could not be there, his influence and power. It was trying enough for the poor child to be left alone as much as she was, for she could not always find solace in Mrs. Nettley, and sometimes could not endure her presence. Against this evil Winthrop provided as far as he might by giving Winnie little jobs to do for him while he was gone, and by setting her about what courses of self-improvement her delicate system of mind and body was able to bear. He managed it so that all was for him; not more the patching and knitting and bits of writing which were strictly in his line, than the pages of history, the sums in arithmetic, and the little lesson of Latin, which were for Winnie's own self. He knew that affection, in every one of them, would steady the nerves and fortify the will to go patiently on to the end. And the variety of occupation he left her was so great that without tiring herself in any one thing, Winnie generally found the lonely hours of her day pretty well filled up. Mrs. Nettley was a great help, when Winnie was in the mood for her company; that was not always.

His little sister's bodily and mental health was another care upon Winthrop's mind, and on his time. Disease now constantly ruffled the sweet flow of spirits which once was habitual with her. Nothing ruffled his; and his soothing hand could always quiet her, could almost always make her happy, when it was practicable for him to spare time. Very often when he had no time to give beyond what a word or a look would take from his business. But those times were comparatively few. He was apt to give her what she needed, and make up for it afterwards at the cost of rest and sleep when Winnie was abed. Through the warm summer days he took her daily and twice daily walks, down to the Green where the sea air could blow in her face fresh from its own quarter, where she and he too could turn their backs upon brickwork and pavement and look on at least one face of nature unspotted and unspoiled. At home he read to her, and with her, the times when he used to read the classics; and many other times; he talked to her and he played with her, having bought a second-hand backgammon board for the very purpose; he heard her and set her her lessons; and he amused her with all the details of his daily business and experience that he could make amusing.

If these things were a charge, it was one for which he was abundantly rewarded, every night and every morning, and knew it. But the other part of the burden, the drain upon his purse, was not so easily to be met withal. There was no helping it. Winnie's state of health made her simple wants, simple as they were, far more costly than his own had been; and he would and did supply them. He could bear to starve himself and lie hard; but Winnie would very soon starve to death; and the time when she could sleep softly on a hard bed had once been, but would never be again, literally or figuratively. Winthrop never shewed her how it was with him; not the less it was almost the ebb; and whence the flow was to come, was a point he saw not. He was not yet admitted to practise law; his slender means were almost all gathered from teaching; and he could not teach any more than he did. And this consciousness he carried about with him, to the office, to market, and to his little sister's presence. For her his face was always the same; and while she had it Winnie thought little was wanting to her life.

One morning when she had it not, she was lying wearily stretched out on the couch which was hers by day and Winthrop's by night. It was early June; the sun was paying his first instalment of summer heat, and doing it as if he were behind-hand with pay-day. Winnie's attic roof gave her a full share of his benefits. The hours of the morning had worn away, when towards noon a slow step was heard ascending the stairs. It was her hostess, come up to look after her.

"All alone?" said Mrs. Nettley.

"Oh yes! --" came with most fervent breath from Winnie. Her head uneasily turned the other cheek to the pillow.

"Poor child!" said Mrs. Nettley; and every line of her careful and sympathetic face said it over again. "Poor child! -- And Mr. Winthrop's been away all the morning!"

"I don't know why you call me _poor_," said Winnie, whose nerves could not bear even that slight touch, if it happened to touch the wrong way; -- "Of course he's been away all the morning -- he always is."

"And you're tired. I didn't mean _poor_, dear, in the way that I am poor myself; -- not that poor, -- I only meant, -- because you were so much here all alone without your brother."

"I know what you meant," said Winnie.

"It's hot up here, isn't it," said Mrs. Nettley going to the window. "Dreadful. It's hot down stairs too. Can't we let a little air in?" --

"Don't! It's hotter with it."

Mrs. Nettley left the window and came and stood by Winnie's couch, her face again saying what her voice did not dare to say, -- "Poor child!" --

"Mrs. Nettley --"

"What, my love?"

"I'm very cross --"

"No you aren't, my love! you're only tired."

"I'm very cross -- I don't know what makes me so -- but sometimes I feel so it seems as if I couldn't help it. I'm cross even to Winthrop. I'm very much obliged to you, but you must think I aint."

"I don't think the least thing of the kind, dearest -- I know it's miserable and suffocating up here, and you _can't_ feel -- I wish I could make it better for you!"

"O it'll be better by and by -- when Governor gets home and it grows cool."

"Come down and take a bit of dinner with me."

"O no, thank you, Mrs. Nettley," said Winnie brightening up, -- "I don't want anything; and Governor'll be home by and by and then we'll have our dinner. I'm going to broil the chicken and get everything ready."

"Well, that'll be sweeter than anything I've got," said the good lady. -- "Why, who's there? --"

Somebody there was, knocking at the door; and when the door was opened, who was there shewed herself in the shape of a young lady, very bright looking and well dressed. She glanced at Mrs. Nettley with a slight word of inquiry and passing her made her way on up to the couch.

"Is this Winifred?" she said, looking, it might be, a little shocked and a little sorrowful at the pale and mind-worn face that used to be so round and rosy; and about which the soft fair hair still clustered as abundantly as ever.

"Yes ma'am," Winifred said, half rising.

"Don't get up, -- don't you know me?"

Winnie's eye keenly scanned the bright fresh face that bent over her, but she shook her head and said 'no'.

"Can't you remember my being at your house -- some time ago? -- me and" she stopped. "Don't you remember? We spent a good while there -- one summer -- it was when you were a little girl."

"O!" -- said Winnie, -- "are you --"

"Yes."

"I remember. But you were not so large then, either."

"I am not very large now," said her visiter, taking a chair beside Winnie's couch.

"No. But I didn't know you."

"How do you do, dear?"

"I don't know," said Winnie. "I am not very well now-a-days."

"And Mannahatta is hot and dusty and disagreeable -- more than any place you ever were in before in your life, isn't it?"

"I don't care," said Winnie. "I'd rather be with Winthrop."

"And can he make up for dust and heat and bad air and all?"

The smile that broke upon Winnie's face Elizabeth remembered was like that of old time; there was a sparkle in the eyes that looked up at her, the lips had their childish play, and the thin cheek even shewed its dimple again. As she met the look, Elizabeth's own face grew grave and her brow fell; and it was half a minute before she spoke.

"But he cannot be with you a great deal of the time."

"O yes he is," said Winnie; -- "he is here in the morning, and at breakfast and dinner and tea, and all the evening. And all Sundays."

"That's the best day of the week then, I suppose."

"It's always that," said Winnie. "And he takes a great many walks with me -- every day almost, when it gets cool -- we go down on the Green and stay there as long as it's pleasant."

Elizabeth was silent again.

"But doesn't he have studying or writing to do in the evenings? I thought he had."

"O yes," said Winnie, "but then it don't hinder him from talking to me."

"And is he good enough to make you like this place better than your beautiful country home?"

"I would rather be here," said Winnie. But she turned her face a little from her questioner, and though it remained perfectly calm, the eyes filled to overflowing. Elizabeth again paused, and then bending over her where she still lay on her couch, she pressed her own full red lips to Winnie's forehead. The salute was instantly returned upon one of her little kid gloves which Winnie laid hold of.

"You don't know how rich you are, Winifred, to have such a good brother."

"Yes I do," said Winifred. "_You_ don't."

If there was not a rush to Elizabeth's eyes, it was because she fought for it.

"Perhaps I don't," she said quietly; -- "for I never had any one. Will you go and ride with me to-morrow, Winifred?"

"Ride?" said Winifred.

"Yes. In my carriage. We'll go out of town."

"O yes! O thank you! I should like it very much."

"You don't look very strong," said Elizabeth. "How is it that you can take such long walks?"

"O Winthrop don't let me get tired you know."

"But how does he manage to help it?" said Elizabeth smiling. "Can he do everything?"

"I don't know," said Winnie. "He don't let me stand too long, and he doesn't let me walk too fast; and his arm is strong, you know; --he can almost hold me up if I do get tired."

"I have -- or my father has," -- said Elizabeth, "some very old, very good wine. -- I shall send you some. Will you try it? I think it would make you stronger."

"I don't know whether Winthrop would let me drink it."

"Why not?"

"O he don't like me to drink anything but water and milk -- he don't let me have tea or coffee -- and I don't know whether he'd like wine; -- but I'll ask him."

"Don't let you have tea or coffee!"

"No; we drink milk, and water."

"But don't he let you do whatever you have a mind?"

"No," said Winnie; "and I don't want to, either."

"Don't want to do what?"

"Why -- anything that he don't like."

"Do you love him well enough for that -- not to _wish_ to do what he don't like, Winifred?"

"Yes!" said Winifred. "I think I do. I may wish it at first, of course; but I don't want to do it if he wishes me not."

"How did he ever get such power over you!"

"Power!" said Winnie, raising herself up on her elbow, -- "why I don't know what you mean! I should think everybody would do what Winthrop likes -- it isn't _power_."

"I wonder what is, then!" said Elizabeth significantly.

"Why it's -- it's -- goodness!" said Winnie, shutting her eyes, but not before they had filled again. Elizabeth bit her lips to keep her own from following company; not with much success.

"That's what it is," said Winnie, without opening her eyes; -- "he always was just so. No he wasn't either, -- though it almost seems as if he was, -- but now he's a Christian."

If outward signs had kept inward feelings company, Elizabeth would have started. She sat still; but the lines of her face wore a look of something very like startled gravity. There was a silence of more than one minute. Winnie opened her eyes and directed them upon her still companion.

"Is he any better than he used to be?" she forced herself to say.

"Why yes," said Winnie, -- "of course -- he must be. He used to be as good as he could be, except that; -- and now he's that too."

"What difference does 'that' make, Winifred?"

Winnie looked keenly once more at the face of her questioner.

"Don't you know what it is to be a Christian, Miss Haye?"

Elizabeth shook her head.

"You must ask Winthrop," said Winnie. "He can tell you better than I can."

"I want you to tell me. What difference, for instance, has it made in your brother?"

Winnie looked grave and somewhat puzzled.

"He don't seem much different to _me_," she said, -- "and yet he _is_ different. -- The difference is, Miss Haye, that before, he loved _us_ -- and now he loves God and keeps his commandments."

"Don't he love you now?"

"Better than ever!" said Winnie with her eyes opening; -- "why what makes you ask that?"

"Didn't he keep the commandments of the Bible before?"

"No, --not as he does now. Some of them he did, because he never was bad as some people are; -- but he didn't keep them as he does now. He didn't keep the first commandment of all."

"Which is that?" said Elizabeth.

Winnie gave her another earnest look before she answered.

"Don't you know?"

"No."

"'Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy mind, and with all thy soul, and with all thy strength.'"

If Winifred's face was grave, Elizabeth's took a double shade of gravity -- it was even dark for a minute, as if with some thought that troubled her. Winnie's eyes seemed to take note of it, and Elizabeth roused herself. Yet at first it was not to speak.

"When -- How long ago, do you suppose," she said, "your brother was changed in this way?"

"Since -- since the time I came here; -- since mother died," Winnie said softly.

There was again a few minutes of absolute silence; and then Elizabeth rose to go.

"Shall I send you the wine?" she said smiling.

"I don't believe Winthrop will let me take it," Winifred said.

"Because he is good, are you bound not to get strong?" Elizabeth said with an air of slight vexation.

"No," -- said Winnie, "but because he is good I must do what he says."

"I wish I liked anybody so well as that!" said Elizabeth kissing her. "Good bye, dear, -- I'll come for you to-morrow. There's no objection to that, I suppose?"

"No," Winnie said laughing; and they parted.

Five minutes Winnie was alone, thinking over her visit and visiter. They were a great novelty, and very interesting. Winnie's thoughts roved with an odd mixture of admiration and pity over the beautiful dress, and fine face, and elastic step; they were bewitching; but Winnie had seen a shadow on the face, and she knew that the best brightness had never lighted it. Five minutes were all she had to think about it; then she heard a very different step on the stairs.

"I heard her go," said Mrs. Nettley, coming in, "and I had a little more time to spare; so I thought I would spend it with you; -- unless you've got enough with such a gay visiter and don't want me."

"O no indeed, Mrs. Nettley, I want you just as much. Have you done dinner?"

"George isn't ready yet;" and Mrs. Nettley took Miss Haye's chair and set her knitting-needles a going. "Has she tired you with talking?"

"No -- talking doesn't tire me, --and she wasn't a gay visiter, either, Mrs. Nettley -- what do you mean by 'gay'?"

"O, she was handsome, and young, and 'fine feathers make fine birds' I'm sure," said Mrs. Nettley; -- "wasn't she smartly dressed?"

"Yes," said Winnie, she had handsome things on; but that didn't make her _gay_."

"Well that was what I meant. How do you like that young lady?"

"I don't know," said Winnie. "I think I like her."

"This isn't the first of your seeing her, dear!"

"O no -- she was at our house once. I've seen her before, but that was a great while ago. I didn't know her again at first."

"Then she remembered you best."

"O --" said Winnie, considering, -- "she has seen Rufus and Winthrop since then."

"She's a handsome young lady, don't you think so?"

"I don't know --" said Winnie.

"Ask your brother if he don't think so."

"Why?"

"See if he don't think so."

"Which brother?"

"Your brother that's here -- your brother Winthrop."

"Does he think she is?"

"Ask him," repeated Mrs. Nettley.

"I don't know why I should ask him," said Winnie turning over uneasily on her couch; -- "I don't care if she is or no."

"Ay, but you might care."

"I don't know why," said Winnie.

"How would you like to have a new sister one of these days? -- by and by?"

"A sister?"

Mrs. Nettley nodded.

"A sister!" said Winnie. "How should I have a sister?"

"Why such a thing might be," said Mrs. Nettley. "Did you never think of one of your brothers getting married?"

"Winthrop won't!" said Winnie, -- "and I don't care what Rufus does."

"What makes you think Winthrop won't?"

"He won't!" said Winnie with flushing cheeks.

"Wouldn't you be glad? You would like anything that would make him happy."

"Happy!" said Winnie. -- "Glad! -- I do wish, Mrs. Nettley, you would go down stairs and leave me alone!"

Mrs. Nettley went away, in some astonishment. And before her astonishment had cooled off in her own kitchen, down came Winnie, with flushed cheeks still, and watery eyes, and a distressed face, to beg Mrs. Nettley's forgiveness. It was granted with her whole heart, and a burden of apologies besides; but Winnie's face remained a distressed face still. The chicken, broiled on Mrs. Nettley's fire, was salted with some tears; and all the simple and careful preparations for Winthrop's dinner were made more carefully than usual; but when Winthrop came home, his little sister was as far from being herself as ever.

It happened that Winthrop was very busy that day and had no time to talk, except the disjointed bits of talk that could come between the joints of the chicken; and pleasant as those bits were, they could not reach the want of poor Winnie's heart. Immediately after dinner Winthrop went out again; and she was left to get through the afternoon without help of anybody.

It had worn on, and the long summer day was drawing to its close, when Winthrop was at last set free from his business engagements and turned his face and his footsteps towards home. The day had been sultry and his toil very engrossing; but that was not the reason his footsteps flagged. They flagged rarely, but they did it now. It needed not that he should have noticed his little sister's face at dinner; his ordinary burdens of care were quite enough and one of them just now pressing. In a sort of brown study he was slowly pacing up one of the emptying business streets, when his hand was seized by some one, and Winthrop's startled look up met the round jocund well-to-do face of the German professor.

"Wint'rop! -- Where are you going?"

"Home, sir," -- said Winthrop returning the grasp of his friend's hand.

"How is all wiz you?"

"As usual, sir."

"Wint'rop -- what is de matter wiz you?"

"Nothing! --" said Winthrop.

"I know better!" said the naturalist, -- "and I know what it is, too. Here -- I will give you some work to do one of these days and then I will pay you the rest."

And shaking Winthrop's hand again, the philosopher dashed on. But Winthrop's hand was not empty when his friend's had quitted it; to his astonishment he found a roll of bills left in it, and to his unbounded astonishment found they were bills to the amount of three hundred dollars.

If he was in any sort of a study as he paced the rest of his way home, it was not a brown study; and if his steps were slow, it was not that they flagged any more. It had come in time; it was just what was needed; and it was enough to keep him on, till he should be admitted to the bar and might edge off his craft from her moorings to feel the wind and tide 'that lead on to fortune.' Winthrop never doubted of catching both; as little did he doubt now of being able some time to pay back principal and interest to his kind friend. He went home with a lighter heart. But he had never let Winnie know of his troubles, and could not for the same reason talk to her of this strange relief.

Thinking so, he went up the stairs and opened the door of his and her sitting-room. The sun was down by that time, and the evening light was failing. The table stood ready for tea; Winnie had all the windows open to let in the freshening air from the sea, which was beginning to make head against the heats and steams of the city; herself sat on the couch, away from the windows, and perhaps her attitude might say, away from everything pleasant. Winthrop came silently up and put a little basket in her hand.

"Oh! --" Winnie sprang forward with an accent of joy, -- "Strawberries! -- Beautiful! and so sweet! O Winthrop, aren't they sweet! -- how good they will be."

"I hope so," said he. "How are you?"

"O -- I'm well," said Winnie. "How big they are -- and fresh. They do smell so sweet, don't they, Governor?"

Winthrop thought they were not so fresh nor so sweet as those which grew in the Bright Spot under Wut-a-qut-o; but he didn't remind Winnie of that. He smiled at her, as she was picking over her basket of strawberries with an eager hand. Yet when Winnie had got to the bottom of the basket and looked up at him his face was very grave indeed.

"There's plenty for you and me, Governor," she said.

"No," said her brother.

"There is plenty, Winthrop!"

"There is only just enough for you, and you must prove that by eating them all."

"Why didn't you get some for yourself, Governor!"

He answered that by spreading for her a particularly nice piece of bread and butter and laying it on her plate alongside of the strawberries. Winnie took it in the same pleasant mood and began upon both with great zeal; but before she had got half through the strawberries something seemed to come over her recollection; and the latter part of the meal her face grew more shadowy than the growing evening. When it was over, Winthrop placed her gently on the couch, and himself put away the dishes and glasses and eatables from the table. Then he came and sat down beside her and drew her head to lean upon him. It was darkening by that time, and the air coming in more and more fresh at the windows.

"Have you been very tired to-day?"

"No -- I don't know --" said Winnie doubtfully.

"We couldn't have our walk this evening -- I am sorry for that -- but I was kept so long with Bob Satterthwaite. He is in a great feaze about some property that he thinks is owing to him somewhere, and he has been giving me a long detail of matters and things connected with the business. -- I believe that if I were in practice he would commission me to get his rights for him. And an old classmate and friend of mine, Bob Cool, was in town to-day and came to see me. _He_ was expressing a very earnest wish that I were working on my own hook."

"Oh I wish you were!" -- said Winnie.

"Patience. I shall be in a little while more, if all goes well. Mr. Cool promises I shall have all his business."

"Is that much?"

"I don't know. It seems so."

"But isn't Mr. Satterthwaite rich?"

"Yes -- very."

"Then what is he in a feaze about money for?"

"He is not so rich he mightn't be richer, I suppose, Winnie. And besides, nobody likes to be cheated."

"Is Mr. Haye rich?"

"Yes! What made you think of him?"

Winnie hesitated. "She was here to-day."

"She! Who? -- Clam?"

"No, not Clam."

"Who then?"

"Why -- Miss Haye."

"Was _she_ here?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"This morning. She staid a good while with me."

"It was kind of her," said Winthrop after a little pause.

There was a pause then of some length.

"Has Miss Haye's being here and talking to you, tired you, Winnie?" said her brother, the arm that was round her drawing her more near.

"No --" Winnie said; but by no means as if Miss Haye's visit had had a sprightly effect.

"Staid here a good while talking? What did she talk about?"

"O -- I don't know, --" said Winnie, -- "about my drinking wine, and going to ride with her."

"She is very kind. And what did you tell her?"

"I said I didn't know whether you would let me drink it. I said I would go to ride."

"I am very much obliged to Miss Haye, and very glad for you, Winnie. It will do you good."

"Would you let me drink wine, if she should send it to me?"

"Did she speak of doing that?"

"Yes."

There was a little silence.

"Would you let me take it, Winthrop?"

"I suppose I should."

"I hope she won't send it," said Winnie; "and I wish I wasn't going to ride, either."

"Why?"

"O -- I'd rather stay here."

They sat a little while without speaking another word; and then Winthrop withdrawing his arm proposed to have 'some light on the subject.' Winifred sprang to get it, but he held her back, and himself got the candle and lit it and placed it on the table. The light shewed Winnie's face flushed and unresting, and of doubtful signification about the eyes. Winthrop came and took his former place and position by her side.

"How has the day been with you, Winnie?"

The tone was most gentle and kindly. Winnie hesitated and then said,

"It hasn't been good."

"What's the matter?"

"_I_ haven't been good."

"That isn't such a new thing that you need be surprised at it, -- is it?" he said gently.

"No" -- under breath.

"And it isn't so strange a thing that I love you a bit the less for it."

"But it's very uncomfortable," said poor Winnie, whose voice bore her witness.

"I find it so often."

"You, Governor! -- you _never_ do!" said Winnie energetically.

"Never do what?"

"Never feel like me."

"No, Winnie -- I am strong and you are weak -- you are sick and I am well. I have no excuse -- you have, a little."

"It don't make it a bit better," said poor Winnie. "I don't want to make any excuse. I got so cross with Mrs. Nettley to- day."

"What about?"

"O I couldn't bear to hear her talk, and I almost told her so."

"I dare say you did what you could to mend it afterwards, Winnie."

"O yes; -- and she didn't think anything of it at all; but I am always doing so, Winthrop."

"You never do it to me," said her brother soothingly.

"To you! -- But O Winthrop! -- if I loved God enough, I never should do anything to displease him!"

She had thrown herself further into her brother's arms and at this was weeping with all her heart.

"He said once himself," said Winthrop, "'Blessed are they that mourn now, for they shall be comforted.'"

Winnie clung faster to him, with a grateful clasp, and her tears came more gently.

"We sha'n't be quit of it till we get to heaven, Winnie; -- and 'the people that dwell therein,' you know, 'shall be forgiven their iniquity.' And more than that, 'white robes are given unto every one of them.' 'And they shall see the King's face, and his name shall be in their foreheads.'"

"I wish it was in mine now!" said Winnie.

"Stop, Winnie. -- I hope it is there, -- only not so bright as it will be by and by."

"But it ought to be bright now," said Winnie raising herself.

"Let it be brighter every day then," said her brother.

"I do try, Governor," said poor Winnie, -- "but sometimes I think I don't get ahead at all!"

It was with great tenderness that again he put his arm round her, and drew down her head upon him, and pressed her close to his side.

"Rest! --" said he, -- "and trust what is written, that 'they shall praise the Lord that seek him.' 'Wait on the Lord; be of good courage, and he shall strengthen thine heart; wait, I say, on the Lord.'"

"How much better I feel already," said poor Winnie presently.

There was a long silence. Winnie lay there still, and Winthrop was softly playing with one of her hands and striking it and stroking it against his own. The air came in fresh and cool from the sea and put the candle flame out of all propriety of behaviour; it flared and smoked, and melted the candle sideways, and threatened every now and then to go out entirely; but Winnie lay looking at Winthrop's hand which the moonlight shone upon, and Winthrop -- nobody knows what he was looking at; but neither of them saw the candle. Winnie was the one to break the silence.

"What sort of a person is she, Winthrop?"

"Who?" said her brother.

"What? -- O, I mean -- I meant -- I meant, who was here to-day, -- Miss Haye."

"You have seen her, Winnie," he said after a moment's hesitation.

"Yes, but you know her. Do you think she is a person I would like?"

"I do not know."

"You don't know! --"

"But _you_ know her, Winthrop," said Winnie a little timidly, when she found he added nothing to his former words.

"Yes."

"Don't _you_ like her?"

"Yes."

"Then why don't you know?"

"You don't like everything that I like," said her brother.

"Why yes I do! -- Don't I?"

"Not everything."

"What don't I?"

"Euripides -- and Plato."

"Ah but I don't understand those," said Winnie.

Winthrop was silent. Was that what he meant? -- was Winnie's instant thought. Very disagreeable. And his 'yes's' were so quiet -- they told nothing. Winnie looked at her brother's hand again, or rather at Miss Haye in her brother's hand; and Winthrop pursued his own meditations.

"Governor," said Winnie after a while, "is Miss Haye a Christian?"

"No."

Winnie asked no more; partly because she did not dare, and partly because the last answer had given her so much to think of. She did not know why, either, and she would have given a great deal to hear it over again. In that little word and the manner of it, there had been so much to quiet and to disquiet her. Undoubtedly Winnie would have done anything in the world, that she could, to make Miss Haye a Christian; and yet, there was a strange sort of relief in hearing Winthrop say that word; and at the same time a something in the way he said it that told her her relief had uncertain foundation. The 'no' had not been spoken like the 'yes' -- it came out half under breath; what meaning lurked about it Winnie could not make out; she puzzled herself to think; but though she could not wish it had been a willing 'no,' she wished it had been any other than it had. She could not ask any more; and Winthrop's face when he went to his reading was precisely what it was other evenings. But Winnie's was not; and she went to bed and got up with a sore spot in her heart, and a resolution that _she_ would not like Miss Haye, for she would not know her well enough to make sure that she could.

END OF VOL. I.

PRINTED BY BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ.

COLLECTION

OF

BRITISH AUTHORS

VOL. CCCLII.

THE HILLS OF THE SHATEMUC

BY

ELIZABETH WETHERELL.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

THE

HILLS OF THE SHATEMUC

BY

ELIZABETH WETHERELL,

AUTHOR OF "THE WIDE WIDE WORLD."

_AUTHOR'S EDITION_.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LEIPZIG

BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ

1856.

THE HILLS OF THE SHATEMUC.

VOL. II.