Chapter XIV

Heaven doth with us as we with torches do; Not light them for themselves: for if our virtues Did not go forth of us, 'twere all alike As if we had them not. SHAKSPEARE.

Much against Mrs. Nettley's will, she was despatched on her journey homewards within a few days after. She begged to be allowed to stay yet a week or two, or three; but Elizabeth was unmoveable. "It would make no difference," she said, "or at least I would rather you should go. You ought to be there -- and I may as well learn at once to get used to it."

"But it will be very bad for you, Miss Elizabeth."

"I think it is right, Mrs. Nettley."

So Mrs. Nettley went; and how their young lady passed her days and bore the quietude and the sorrow of them, the rest of the household marvelled together.

"She'd die, if there was dyin' stuff in her," said Clam; "but there ain't."

"What for should she die?" said Karen.

"I'm as near dead as I can be, myself," was Clam's conclusive reply.

"What ails you, girl?"

"I can't catch my breath good among all these mountains," said Clam. "I guess the hills spiles the air hereabouts."

"Your young lady don't think so."

"No," said Clam, -- "she looks at the mountains as if she'd swaller them whole -- them and her Bible; -- only she looks into that as if it would swaller her."

"Poor bird! she's beat down; -- its too lonesome up here for her!" said Karen more tenderly than her wont was.

"That ain't no sign she'll go," said Clam. "She's as notional as the Governor himself, when she takes a notion; only there's some sense in his, and you never know where the sense of hers is till it comes out."

"The house is so still, it's pitiful to hear it," said Karen. "I never minded it when there wa'n't nobody in it -- I knowed the old family was all gone -- but now I hear it, seems to me, the whole day long. You can't hear a foot, when you ain't in there."

"That'll last awhile, maybe," said Clam; "and then you'll have a row. 'Tain't in her to keep still more'n a certain length o' time; and when she comes out, there'll be a firing up, I tell ye."

"The Lord 'll keep his own," said Karen rising from the table. Which sentence Clam made nothing of.

Spite of her anticipations, the days, and the weeks, sped on smoothly and noiselessly. Indeed _more_ quietness, and not less, seemed to be the order of them. Probably too much for Elizabeth's good, if such a state of mere mind-life had been of long lasting. It would not long have been healthy. The stir of passion, at first, was fresh enough to keep her thoughts fresh; but as time went on there were fewer tears and a more settled borne-down look of sorrow. Even her Bible, constantly studied, -- even prayer, constantly made over it, did not hinder this. Her active nature was in an unnatural state; it could not be well so. And it sometimes burst the bounds she had set to it, and indulged in a passionate wrestling with the image of joys lost and longed for. Meanwhile, the hot days of August were passed, the first heats of September were slowly gone; and days and nights began to cool off in earnest towards the frosty weather.

"If there ain't some way found to keep Miss Haye's eyes from cryin', she won't have 'em to do anything else with. And she'll want 'em, some day."

Clam, like Elizabeth of old, having nobody else to speak to, was sometimes driven to speak to the nearest at hand.

"Is she cryin', now?" said Karen.

"I don' know what _you_'d call it," said Clam. "'Tain't much like other folks' cryin'."

"Well there's a letter Anderese fetched -- you'd better take it to her as soon as it'll do. Maybe it'll do her good."

"Where from?" said Clam seizing it.

"Anderese fetched it from Mountain Spring."

"Now I wish 'twas -- but it ain't! --" said Clam. "I'll take it to her anyhow."

Elizabeth knew that _it wasn't_, as soon as she took it. The letter was from the gentleman who had been her father's lawyer in the city.

Mannahatta, Sept. 26, 1817.

"Dear madam,

"Upon arrangement of Mr. Haye's affairs, I regret to say, we find it will take nearly all his effects to meet the standing liabilities and cover the failure of two or three large operations in which Mr. Haye had ventured more upon uncertain contingencies than was his general habit in business matters. So little indeed will be left, at the best issue we can hope for, that Mrs. Haye's interest, whose whole property, I suppose you are aware, was involved, I grieve to say will amount to little or nothing. It were greatly to be wished that some settlement had in time been made for her benefit; but nothing of the kind was done, nor I suppose in the circumstances latterly was possible. The will makes ample provision, but I am deeply pained to say, is, as matters stand, but a nullity. I enclose a copy.

"I have thought it right to advertise you of these painful tidings, and am,

"Dear madam, with great respect,

"Your obedient servant,

"Dustus O. Brick."

Elizabeth had read this letter, and pondered over it by turns half the day, when a startling thought for the first time flashed into her mind. Rose's desolate condition! Less desolate than her own indeed, in so far that Rose had less strength to feel; but more desolate by far, because being as friendless she was much more helpless than herself. "What will she do, without money and friends? -- for she never had any near and dear friends but father and me. Where can she live? -- "

Elizabeth jumped up and ran into the house to get away from the inference. But when she had sat down in her chair the inference stood before her.

"Bring her here! -- I cannot. I cannot. It would ruin my life." Then, clear and fair, stood the words she had been reading -- 'Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you --'

"But there is no bed-room for her but this -- or else there will be no sitting-room for either of us; -- and then we must eat in the kitchen! --"

"_She_ has neither house, nor home, nor friend, nor money. What wouldst thou, in her place? --"

Elizabeth put her face in her hands and almost groaned. She took it up and looked out, but in all bright nature she could find nothing which did not side against her. She got up and walked the room; then she sat down and began to consider what arrangements would be necessary, and what would be possible. Then confessed to herself that it would not be _all_ bad to have somebody to break her solitude, even anybody; then got over another qualm of repugnance, and drew the table near her and opened her desk.

Shahweetah, Sept. 26, 1817.

"Dear Rose,

"I am all alone, like you. Will you come here and let us do the best we can together? I am at a place you don't like, but I shall not stay here all the time, and I think you can bear it with me for a while. I shall have things arranged so as to make you as comfortable as you can be in such straitened quarters, and expect you will come as soon as you can get a good opportunity. Whether you come by boat or not, part of the way, you will have to take the stage-coach from Pimpernel here; and you must stop at the little village of Mountain Spring, opposite Wut-a-qut-o. From there you can get here by wagon or boat. I can't send for you, for I have neither one nor the other.

"Yours truly, dear Rose,

"Elizabeth Haye."

With the letter in her hand, Elizabeth went forth to the kitchen.

"Karen, is there any sort of a cabinet-maker at Mountain Spring?"

"What's that?" said Karen.

"Is there any sort of a cabinet-maker at the village? -- a cabinet-maker, -- somebody that makes tables and bedsteads, and that sort of thing?"

"A furnitur' shop?" said Karen.

"Yes -- something of that kind. Is there such a thing in Mountain Spring?"

Karen shook her head.

"They don't make nothin' at Mountain Spring."

"Where do the people get their tables and chairs? where do they go for them?"

"They go 'most any place," said Karen; -- "sometimes they goes to Pimpernel, -- and maybe to Starlings, or to Deerford; they don't go much nowheres."

"Can I get such things at Pimpernel?"

"If you was there, you could, I s'pose," said Karen.

"Could Anderese get a horse and cart at the village, to go for me?"

"I guess he can find a wagon round somewheres," said Karen. "You couldn't go in a cart handy."

"I! -- no, but I want to send him, to fetch home a load of things."

"How'll he know what to get?"

"I will tell him. Couldn't he do it?"

"If he knowed what was wanted, he could," said Karen. "Me and him 'll go, Miss Lizzie, and we'll do it."

"You, Karen! I don't want to send you."

"Guess I'll do the best," said the old woman. "Anderese mightn't know what to fetch. What you want, Miss Lizzie?"

Elizabeth thought a moment whether she should ask Winthrop to send up the things for her; but she could not bear to do it.

"I want a bedstead, Karen, in the first place."

"What sort'll a one?"

"The best you can find."

"That'll be what'll spend the most money," said Karen musingly.

"I don't care about that, but the nicest sort you can meet with. And a bureau --"

"What's that?" said Karen. "I dun' know what that means."

"To hold clothes -- with drawers -- like that in my room."

"A cupboard?" said Karen; -- "some sort like that?"

"No, no; I'll shew you what I mean, in my room; it is called a bureau. And a washstand -- a large one, if you can find it. And a rocking-chair -- the handsomest one that can be had."

"I know them two," said Karen. "That'll be a load, Miss Lizzie. I don't b'lieve the wagon 'll hold no more."

"The first fine day, Karen, I want you to go."

"The days is all fine, I speck, hereabouts," said Karen. "We'll start as quick as Anderese gets a wagon."

"Who's comin', Miss 'Lizabeth?" said Clam as she met her young lady coming out of the kitchen.

"I don't know -- possibly Mrs. Haye. I wish all things to be in readiness for her."

"Where'll she sleep, Miss 'Lizabeth," said Clam with opening eyes.

"Here."

"Will she have this for her bedroom? -- And what'll you do, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"If she comes, we will eat in the kitchen." And with the thought the young lady stepped back.

"I forgot -- Karen, do you think the wagon will hold no more? Anderese must get a large one. I want a few neat chairs -- plain ones -- cane-bottomed, or rush-bottomed will do; I want them for this room; for if this lady comes we shall have to take this for our eating-room. I don't want a table; we can make this do; -- or we can take the one I use now; but we want the chairs."

"Well, Miss Lizzie, you'll have to have 'em -- we'll manage to pile 'em on someways."

And Miss Haye withdrew.

"Ain't this a start now?" said Clam after she had rubbed her knives in silence for several minutes. "Didn't I tell you so?"

"Tell what?" said Karen.

"Why! that Miss 'Lizabeth couldn't keep quiet more'n long enough to get her spunk up. What in the name of variety is she at work at now!"

"What's the matter with you?" grumbled Karen.

"Why I tell you," said Clam facing round, "them two love each other like pison!"

"That's a queer way to love," said Karen.

"They hate each other then -- do you understand me? they hate so, one wouldn't thaw a piece of ice off the other's head if it was freezin' her!"

"Maybe 'tain't jus' so," said Karen.

"What do you know about it!" said Clam contemptuously.

"What do you, perhaps?" suggested Karen.

"I know _my_ young lady," said Clam rubbing her knives, "and I know t'other one. There ain't but one person in _this_ world that can make Miss 'Lizabeth keep her fire down -- but she does have an idee of mindin' him."

"Who's that?" said Karen.

"Somebody you don't know, I guess," said Clam.

"If 'twas all true, she wouldn't want her here," said Karen.

"It's all true," said Clam, -- "'cept the last. _You_ don't know nothin', Karen. We'll see what a time there'll be when she comes. Eat in here! --"

"She's eat in here afore now -- and I guess she can again," said old Karen, in a tone of voice which spoke her by no means so discomposed as Clam's words would seem to justify.

Perhaps Elizabeth herself had a thought or two on the close quarters which would be the infallible result of Mrs. Haye's seizure of the old 'keeping-room.'

The twenty-seventh, spite of Karen's understanding of the weather, was a rainy day. The twenty-eighth, Karen and Anderese went to Pimpernel on their furniture hunting, and came back at night with the articles, selected somewhat in accordance with a limited experience of the usual contents of a cabinet-maker's warehouse. The very next day, Elizabeth set Anderese to foisting out and putting together her little old boat, the Merry-go-round. Putting together, literally; she was dropping to pieces from the effects of years and confinement. Anderese was hardly equal to the business; Elizabeth sent for better help from Mountain Spring, and watched rather eagerly the restoring of her favourite to strength and beauty. Watched and pressed the work, as if she was in a hurry. But after tightening and caulking, the boat must be repainted. Elizabeth watched the doing of that; and bargained for a pair of light oars with her friend the workman. He was an old, respectable- looking man, of no particular calling, that appeared.

"Where was this here boat built?" he inquired one day as he was at work and Elizabeth looking on.

"It was built in Mannahatta."

"A good while ago, likely?"

"Yes, it was."

"Did this here belong to old Squire Landholm?"

"No."

"'Twa'n't fetched here lately, I guess, was it?"

"No -- it has lain here a long time."

"Who _did_ it belong to, then?"

"It belonged to me."

"Is it your'n now?" said the man looking up at her.

"No," said Elizabeth colouring, -- "it is not; but it belongs to a friend of mine."

"Was you ever in these parts before?"

"Some time ago."

"Then you knew the old family, likely?"

"Yes, I did."

"There was fine stuff in them Landholms," said the old man, perhaps supplied with the figure by the timber he was nailing, -- "real what I call good stuff -- parents and children. There was a great deal of good in all of 'em; only the boys took notions they wouldn't be nothin' but ministers or lawyers or some sort o' people that wears black coats and don't have to roll up their trowsers for nothin'. They were clever lads, too. I don't mean to say nothin' agin 'em."

"Do you know how they're gettin' on?" he asked after a pause on his part and on Elizabeth's.

"I believe Asahel is with his father, -- gone West."

"Ay, ay; but I mean the others -- them two that went to College. I ha'n't seen Rufus for a great spell -- I went down and fetched up Winthrop when his mother died."

"Will you have paint enough to finish that gunwale?"

"Guess so," said the old man looking into his paint-pot. "There's more oil in the bottle. What be them two doing now? Winthrop's a lawyer, ain't he?"

"Yes."

"Well, he's made a smart one, ha'n't he? -- ain't he about as smart as any one they've got in Mannahatta?"

"I'm not a judge," said Elizabeth, who could not quite keep her countenance. "I dare say he is."

"He was my favourite, always, Winthrop was, -- the Governor, as they called him. Well -- I'd vote for him if he was sot up for that office -- or any other office -- if they'd do it while I'm above ground. Where is he now? -- in Mannahatta?"

"Yes."

"Where's t'other one -- the oldest -- Rufus -- where's he?"

"I don't know where he is. How soon will this do to be put in the water, Mr. Underhill?"

"Well -- I guess it'll want somethin' of a dryin' fust. You can get along without it till next week, can't you?"

"Next week! and this is Tuesday! --"

"Yes -- will you want it afore that? It hadn't ought to be put in the water one day afore Monday -- if you want it to look handsome -- or to wear worth speakin' of."

Miss Haye was silent, and the old man's brush made long sweeps back and forward over the shining gunwale.

"You see," Mr. Underhill went on, "it'll be all of night afore I get the bottom of this here done. -- What's Rufus doin'? is he got to be a minister yet?"

"No."

"Another lawyer?"

"No."

"What is he then?"

"I don't know -- I believe he was an engineer."

"An engineer?" said the old man standing up and looking at her. "Do you mean he's one o' them fellers that sees to the ingines on the boats? -- _that_ ain't much gettin' up in the world. I see one o' them once -- I went to Mannahatta in the boat, just to see what 'twas -- is Rufus one o' them smutty fellers standing over the fires there?"

"Not at all; it's a very different business, and as respectable as that of a clergyman or lawyer."

"There ain't anything more respectable than what his father was," said Mr. Underhill. "But Rufus was too handsome -- he wanted to wear shiny boots always."

Elizabeth walked off.

So it was not till the early part of October that the little boat was painted and dried and in the water; and very nice she looked. Painted in the old colours; Elizabeth had been particular about that. Rose in the meantime had been heard from. She was coming, very soon, only staying for something, it wasn't very clearly made out what, that would however let her go in a few days. Elizabeth threw the letter down, with the mental conclusion that it was "just like Rose;" and resolved that her arms should be in a good state of training before the 'few days' were over.

"Who's goin' in this little concern?" said Mr. Underhill as he pushed it into the water. "Looks kind o' handsome, don't it?"

"Very nice!" said Elizabeth.

"That old black feller ain't up to rowin' you anywhere, is he? I don't believe he is."

"I'll find a way to get about in her, somehow."

"You must come over and see our folks -- over the other side. My old mother's a great notion to see you --" said he, pulling the boat round into place, -- "and I like she should have what she's a fancy for."

"Thank you," said Elizabeth; with about as much heed to his words as if a coney had requested her to take a look into his burrow. But a few minutes after, some thought made her speak again.

"Have you a mother living, sir?"

"Ay," he said with a little laugh, "she ain't a great deal older than I be. She's as spry in her mind, as she was when she was sixteen. Now -- will you get into this?"

"Not now. Whereabouts do you live?"

"Just over," he said, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder and across the river, -- "the only house you can see, under the mountain there -- just under Wut-a-qut-o. 'Tain't a very sociable place and we are glad to see visiters."

He went; and Elizabeth only waited to have him out of sight, when she took gloves and oars and planted herself in the little 'Merry-go-round.'

"My arms won't carry me far to-day," she thought, as she pushed away from the rocks and slowly skimmed out over the smooth water. But how sweet to be dappling it again with her oar-blades, -- how gracefully they rose and fell -- how refreshing already that slight movement of her arms -- how deliciously independent and alone she felt in her light carriage. Even the thrill of recollection could not overcome the instant's pleasure. Slowly and lovingly Elizabeth's oars dipped into the water; slowly and stealthily the little boat glided along. She presently was far enough out to see Mr. Underhill's bit of a farmhouse, sitting brown and lone at the foot of the hill, close by the water's edge. Elizabeth lay on her oars and stopped and looked at it.

"Go over there! Ridiculous! Why should I? --"

"And why shouldn't I?" came in another whisper. "Do me no harm -- give them some pleasure. It is doing as I would be done by."

"But I can't give pleasure to all the old women in the land," she went on with excessive disgust at the idea.

"And this is only _one_ old woman," went on the other quiet whisper, -- "and kindness is kindness, especially to the old and lonesome. --"

It was very disagreeable to think of; Elizabeth rebelled at it strongly; but she could not get rid of the idea that Winthrop in her place would go, and would make himself exceedingly acceptable; she knew he would; and in the light of that idea, more than of any other argument that could be brought to bear, Elizabeth's conscience troubled her. She lay still on her oars now and then to think about it; she could not go on and get rid of the matter. She pondered Winthrop's fancied doing in the circumstances; she knew how he would comport himself among these poor people; she felt it; and then it suddenly flashed across her mind, "Even Christ pleased not himself;" -- and she knew then why Winthrop did not. Elizabeth's head drooped for a minute. "I'll go," -- she said to herself.

Her head was raised again then, and with a good will the oars made the little boat go over the water. She was elated to find her arms so strong, stronger now than they had been five minutes ago; and she took her way down towards the bottom of the bay, where once she had gone huckleberrying, and where a rich growth of wood covered the banks and shewed in one or two of its members here and there already a touch of frost. Here and there an orange or reddish branch of maple leaves -- a yellow-headed butternut, partly bare -- a ruddying dogwood or dogwood's family connection, -- a hickory shewing suspicions of tawny among its green. A fresh and rich wall-side of beauty the woody bank was. Elizabeth pulled slowly along, coasting the green wilderness, exulting in her freedom and escape from all possible forms of home annoyance and intrusion; but that exulting, only a very sad break in a train of weary and painful thoughts and remembrances. It was the only break to them; for just then sorrowful things had got the upper hand; and even the Bible promises to which she had clung, and the faith that laid hold of them, and the hopes that grew out of them, could not make her be other than downcast and desponding. Even a Christian life, all alone in the world, with nobody and for nobody, seemed desolate and uncheering. Winthrop Landholm led such a life, and was not desolate, nor uncheered. -- "But he is very different from me; he has been long a traveller on the road where my unsteady feet have but just set themselves; he is a man and I am a woman!" -- And once Elizabeth even laid down her oars, and her head upon the hands that had held them, to shed the tears that would have their own peculiar way of comfort and relief. The bay, and the boat, and the woody shore, and the light, and the time of year, all had too much to say about her causes of sorrow. But tears wrought their own relief; and again able to bear the burden of life, Elizabeth pulled slowly and quietly homewards.

Looking behind her as she neared the rocks, to make sure that she was approaching them in a right direction, she was startled to see a man's figure standing there. Startled, because it was not the bent-shouldered form of Mr. Underhill, nor the slouching habit of Anderese; but tall, stately and well put on. It was too far to see the face; and in her one startled look Elizabeth did not distinctly recognize anything. Her heart gave a pang of a leap at the possibility of its being Winthrop; but she could not tell whether it were he or no; she could not be sure that it was, yet who else should come there with that habit of a gentleman? Could Mr. Brick? -- No, he had never such an air, oven at a distance. It was not Mr. Brick. Neither was it Mr. Herder; Mr. Herder was too short. Every nerve now trembled, and her arms pulled nervously and weakly her boat to the shore. When might she look again? She did not till she must; then her look went first to the rocks, with a vivid impression of that dark figure standing above them, seen and not seen -- she guided her boat in carefully -- then just grazing the rocks she looked up. The pang and the start came again, for though not Winthrop it was Winthrop's brother. It was Rufus.

The nervousness and the flutter quieted themselves, almost; but probably Elizabeth could not have told then by the impulse of what feeling or feelings it was, that she coolly looked down again and gave her attention so steadily and minutely to the careful bestowment of her skiff, before she would set foot on the rocks and give her hand and eye to the person who had been waiting to claim them. By what impulse also she left it to him entirely to say what he was there for, and gave him no help whatever in her capacity of hostess.

"You are surprised to see me," said Rufus after he had shaken the lady's hand and helped her on shore.

"Rather. I could not imagine at first who it might be."

"I am glad to find you looking so well," said the gentleman gravely. "Very well indeed."

"It is the flush of exercise," said Elizabeth. "I was not looking well, a little while ago; and shall not be, in a little time to come."

"Rowing is good for you," said Rufus.

"It is pleasant," said Elizabeth. "I do it for the pleasantness, not for the goodness."

"Rather severe exercise, isn't it?"

"Not at all!" said Elizabeth a little scornfully. "I am not strong-armed just now -- but it is nothing to move a boat like that."

"Some ladies would not think so."

They had been slowly moving up the path towards the house. As they reached the level of the grassy garden ground, where the path took a turn, Rufus stopped and faced about upon the river. The fair October evening air and light were there, over the water and over the land.

"It is beautiful!" he said somewhat abstractedly.

"You are not so fond of it as your brother, Mr. Landholm," said Elizabeth.

"What makes you think so?"

There was quick annoyance in his tone, but Miss Haye was not careful.

"Am I wrong? Are you as fond of it?"

"I don't know," said Rufus. "His life has been as steadily given to his pursuits as mine has to mine."

"Perhaps more. But what then? I always thought you loved the city."

"Yes," Rufus said thoughtfully, -- "I did; -- but I love this too. It would be a very cold head and heart that did not."

Elizabeth made no reply; and the two enjoyed it in silence for a minute or two longer.

"For what do you suppose I have intruded upon you at this time, Miss Haye?"

"For some particular purpose -- what, I don't know. I have been trying to think."

"I did not venture to presume upon making an ordinary call of civility."

What _less_ are you going to do? -- thought Elizabeth, looking at him with her eyes a little opened.

"I have been -- for a few months past -- constantly engaged in business at the South; and it is but a chance which permitted me to come here lately -- I mean, to Mannahatta -- on a visit to my brother. I am not willing to let slip any such opportunity."

"I should think you would not," said Elizabeth, wondering.

"There I heard of you. -- Shall we walk down again?"

"If you please. I don't care whether up or down."

"I could not go home without turning a little out of my way to pay this visit to you. I hope I shall be forgiven."

"I don't know what I have to forgive, yet," said Elizabeth.

He was silent, and bit his lip nervously.

"Will you permit me to say -- that I look back with great pleasure to former times passed in your society -- in Mannahatta; -- that in those days I once ventured to entertain a thought which I abandoned as hopeless, -- I had no right to hope, -- but that since I have heard of the misfortunes which have befallen you, it has come back to me again with a power I have not had the strength to resist -- along with my sympathy for those misfortunes. Dear Miss Haye, I hope for your forgiveness and noble interpretation, when I say that I have dared to confess this to you from the impulse of the very circumstances which make it seem most daring."

"The misfortunes you allude to, are but one," said Elizabeth.

"One -- yes, -- but not one in the consequences it involved."

"At that rate of reckoning," said Elizabeth, "there would be to such a thing as _one_ misfortune in the world."

"I was not thinking of one," said Rufus quietly. "The actual loss you have suffered is one shared by many -- pardon me, it does not always imply equal deprivation, nor the same need of a strong and helping friendly hand."

Elizabeth answered with as much quietness, --

"It is probably good for me that I have care on my hands -- it would be a weak wish, however natural, to wish that I could throw off on some agent the charge of my affairs."

"The charge I should better like," said Rufus looking at her, -- "the only charge I should care for, -- would be the charge of their mistress."

An involuntary quick movement of Elizabeth put several feet between them; then after half a minute, with a flushed face and somewhat excited breathing, she said, not knowing precisely what she said,

"I would rather give you the charge of my property, sir. The other is, you don't very well know what."

"My brother would be the better person to perform the first duty, probably," Rufus returned, with a little of his old- fashioned haughtiness of style.

Elizabeth's lips parted and her eye flashed, but as she was not looking at him, it only flashed into the water. Both stood proudly silent and still. Elizabeth was the first to speak, and her tone was gentle, whatever the words might be.

"You cannot have your wish in this matter, Mr. Landholm, and it would be no blessing to you if you could. I trust it will be no great grief to you that you cannot."

"My grief is my own," said Rufus with a mixture of expressions. "How should that be no blessing to me, which it is the greatest desire of my life to obtain, Miss Haye?"

"I don't think it is," said Elizabeth. "At least it will not be. You will find that it is not. It is not the desire of mine, Mr. Landholm."

There was silence again, a mortified silence on one part, -- for a little space.

"You will do justice to my motives?" he said. "I have a right to ask that, for I deserve so much of you. If my suit had been an ungenerous one, it might better have been pressed years ago than now."

"Why was it not?" said Elizabeth.

It was the turn of Rufus's eyes to flash, and his lips and teeth saluted each other vexedly.

"It would probably have been as unavailing then as now," he replied. "I bid you good evening, Miss Haye. I ask nothing from you. I beg pardon for my unfortunate and inopportune intrusion just now. I shall annoy you no more."

Elizabeth returned his parting bow, and then stood quite still where he left her while he walked up the path they had just come down. She did not move, except her head, till he had passed out of sight and was quite gone; then she seated herself on one of the rocks near which her boat was moored, and clasping her hands round her knees, looked down into the water. What to find there? -- the grounds of the disturbance in which her whole nature was working? it lay deeper than that. It wrought and wrought, whatever it was -- the colour flushed and the lips moved tremulously, -- her brow knit, -- till at last the hands came to her eyes and her face sunk down, and passionate tears, passionate sobbing, told what Elizabeth could tell in no other way. Tears proud and humble -- rebelling and submitting.

"It is good for me, I suppose," she said as she at last rose to her feet, fearing that her handmaid might come to seek her, -- "my proud heart needed to be brought down in some such way -- needed to be mortified even to this. Even to this last point of humiliation. To have my desire come and mock me so and as it were shake my wish in my face! But how could _he_ think of me? -- he could not -- he is too good -- and I am a poor thing, that may be made good, I suppose --"

Tears flowed again, hot and unbidden; for she was walking up to the house and did not want anybody to see them. And in truth before she was near the house Clam came out and met her half way down the path.

"Miss 'Lizabeth, -- I don' know as you want to see nobody --"

"Who is there for me to see?"

"Well -- there's an arrival -- I s'pect we'll have to have supper in the kitchen to-night."