Chapter XV

With weary steps I loiter on, Though always under altered skies; The purple from the distance dies, My prospect and horizon gone. TENNYSON.

Whether or not Elizabeth wanted to see anybody she did not say -- except to herself. She walked into the house, fortified with all the muniments of her spirit for the meeting. It was a quiet one on the whole. Rose cried a good deal, but Elizabeth bore it without any giving way; saving once or twice a slight twinkling of lip and eye, instantly commanded back. Rose had all the demonstration to herself, of whatever kind. Elizabeth sat still, silent and pale; and when she could get free went and ordered supper.

The supper was in Mrs. Landholm's old kitchen; they two alone at the table. Perhaps Elizabeth thought of the old time, perhaps her thoughts had enough to do with the present; she was silent, grave and stern, not wanting in any kind care nevertheless. Rose took tears and bread and butter by turns; and then sat with her face in her handkerchief all the evening. It seemed a very, very long evening to her hostess, whose face bespoke her more tired, weary, and grave, with every succeeding half hour. Why was this companion, whose company of all others she least loved, to be yet her sole and only companion, of all the world? Elizabeth by turns fretted and by turns scolded herself for being ungrateful, since she confessed that even Rose was better for her than to be utterly alone. Yet Rose was a blessing that greatly irritated her composure and peace of mind. So the evening literally wore away. But when at last Rose was kissing her hostess for good night, between sobs she stammered, "I am very glad to be here Lizzie, -- it seems like being at home again."

Elizabeth gave her no answer besides the answering kiss; but her eyes filled full at that, and as soon as she reached her own room the tears came in long and swift flow, but sweeter and gentler and softer than they had flowed lately. And very thankful that she had done right, very soothed and refreshed that her right doing had promised to work good, she laid herself down to sleep.

But her eyes had hardly closed when the click of her door- latch made them open again. Rose's pretty night-cap was presenting itself.

"Lizzie! -- aren't you afraid without a man in the house?"

"There _is_ a man in the house."

"Is there?"

"Yes. Anderese -- Karen's brother."

"But he is old."

"He's a man."

"But aren't you ever afraid?"

"It's no use to be afraid," said Elizabeth. "I am accustomed to it. I don't often think of it."

"I heard such queer noises," said Rose whispering. "I didn't think of anything before, either. May I come in here?"

"It's of no use, Rose," said Elizabeth. "You would be just as much afraid to-morrow night. There is nothing in the world to be afraid of."

Rose slowly took her night-cap away and Elizabeth's head went down on her pillow. But her closing eyes opened again at the click of the latch of the other door.

"Miss 'Lizabeth! --"

"Well, Clam? --"

"Karen's all alive, and says she ain't goin' to live no longer."

"What! --"

"Karen."

"What's the matter?"

"Maybe she's goin', as she says she is; but I think maybe she ain't."

"Where is she?" said Elizabeth jumping up.

"In here," said Clam. "She won't die out of the kitchen."

Elizabeth threw on her dressing-gown and hurried out; thinking by the way that she had got into a thorn forest of difficulties, and wishing the daylight would look through. Karen was sitting before the fire, wrapped up in shawls, in the rocking-chair.

"What's the matter, Karen?"

Karen's reply was to break forth into a tremulous scrap of her old song, --

"'I'm going, -- I'm going, -- I'm going, --'"

"Stop," said Elizabeth. "Don't sing. Tell me what's the matter."

"It's nothin' else, Miss Lizzie," said the old woman. "I'm goin' -- I think I be."

"Why do you think so? How do you feel?"

"I don't feel no ways, somehow; -- it's a kinder givin' away. I think I'm just goin', ma'am."

"But what _ails_ you, Karen?"

"It's time," said Karen, jerking herself backwards and forwards in her rocking-chair. "I'm seventy years and more old. I hain't got no more work to do. I'm goin'; and I'm ready, praise the Lord! They're most all gone; -- and the rest is comin' after; -- it's time old Karen was there."

"But that's no sign you mayn't live longer," said Elizabeth. "Seventy years is nothing. How do you feel sick?"

"It's all over, Miss Lizzie," said the old woman. "Its givin' away. I'm goin' -- I know I be. The time's come."

"I will send Anderese for a doctor -- where is there one?"

Karen shivered and put her head in her hands, before she spoke.

"There ain't none -- I don't want none -- there was Doctor Kipp to Mountain Spring, but he ain't no' count; and he's gone away."

"Clam, do speak to Anderese and ask him about it, and tell him to go directly, if there is any one he can go for. -- What can I do for you, Karen?"

"I guess nothin', Miss Lizzie. -- If the Governor was here, he'd pray for me; but it ain't no matter -- I've been prayin' all my life -- It's no matter if I can't pray good just right now. The Lord knows all."

Elizabeth stood silent and still.

"Shall I -- would you like to have me read for you?" she asked somewhat timidly.

"No," said Karen -- "not now -- I couldn't hear. Read for yourself, Miss Lizzie. I wish the Governor was here."

What a throbbing wish to the same effect was in Elizabeth's heart! She stood, silent, sorrowful, dismayed, watching Karen, wondering at herself in her changed circumstances and life and occupation; and wondering if she were only going down into the valley of humiliation, or if she had got to the bottom. And, almost thinking Karen to be envied if she were, as she said, 'going.'

"What's the matter?" said Rose and her night-cap at the other door.

"Karen don't feel very well. Don't come here, Rose."

"What are you there for?"

"I want to be here. You go to bed and keep quiet -- I'll tell you another time."

"Is she sick?"

"Yes -- I don't know -- Go in, Rose, and be quiet!"

Which Rose did. Clam came back and reported that there was no doctor to be sent for, short of a great many miles. Elizabeth's heart sunk fearfully. What could she and her companions do with a dying woman? -- if she were really that. Karen crept nearer the fire, and Clam built it up and made it blaze. Then she stood on one side, and her young mistress on the other.

"Go to bed, Miss 'Lizabeth," said Clam. "I'll see to her."

But Elizabeth did not move so much as an eyelid.

"I don't want nothin'," said Karen presently. "Miss Lizzie, if you see the Governor -- tell him --"

"Tell him what?"

"Tell him to hold on, -- will you? -- the way his mother went and the way he's a goin'. Tell him to hold on till he gets there. Will you tell him?"

"Certainly! I will tell him anything you please."

Karen was silent for a little space, and then began again.

"Is't _your_ way?"

Elizabeth's lips moved a little, but they closed and she made no answer.

"Mis' Landholm went that way, and Governor's goin', and I'm goin' too.

"'I'm going, -- I'm going, -- I'm --'"

"Do you feel better, Karen?" said Elizabeth interrupting her.

"I'm goin' -- I don' know how soon axactly, Miss Lizzie -- but I feel it. I am all givin' away. It's time. I've seen my life all through, and I'm ready. I'm ready -- praise the Lord. I was ready a great while ago, but it wa'n't the Lord's time and now if he pleases, I'm ready."

"Wouldn't you feel better if you were to go to your own room and lie down?"

Karen made no answer for some time and then only was half understood to say that "this was the best place." Elizabeth did not move. Clam fetched a thick coarse coverlid and wrapping herself in it, lay down at full length on the floor.

"Go to bed, Miss 'Lizabeth, -- I'm settled. I'll see to her. I guess she ain't goin' afore mornin'."

"You will go to sleep, Clam, and then she will have nobody to do anything for her."

"I'll wake up once in a while, Miss 'Lizabeth, to see she don't do nothin' to me."

Elizabeth stood another minute, thinking bitterly how invaluable Winthrop would be, in the very place where she knew herself so valueless. Another sharp contrast of their two selves; and then she drew up a chair to the fire and sat down too; determined at least to do the little she could do, give her eyes and her presence. Clam's entreaties and representations were of no avail. Karen made none.

They watched by her, or at least Elizabeth did, through hour after hour. She watched alone, for Clam slept and snored most comfortably; and Karen's poor head much of the time rested in her hands. Whether conscious or unconscious, she was very quiet; and her watcher trimmed the fire and mused with no interruption. At first with much fear and trembling; for she did not know how soon Karen's prophecy might come true; but as the night wore on and no change was to be seen or felt, this feeling quieted down and changed into a very sober and sad review of all the things of her own life, in the past and in the future. The present was but a point, she did not dwell on it; yet in that point was the sweetest and fairest thing her mind had in possession; her beginning of a new life and her hold of the promise which assured her that strength should not be wanting to live it until the end. She did look over her several present duties and made up her mind to the self- denying and faithful performance of them; but then her longing came back, for a human hand to hold her and help her on the journey's way. And her head bowed to the chair-back; and it was a good while before she recollected again to look at the fire or at her charge in front of it.

Karen's attitude was more easy; and Elizabeth excessively fatigued, with pain as well as weariness, felt inclined to steal off to bed and leave her door open, that she might readily hear if she was wanted. But it occurred to her that Winthrop for his own ease never would have deserted his post. She dismissed the thought of sleep and rest; and disposed herself to wear out the remnant of the night as she had begun it; in attendance on what she was not sure needed her attendance.

A longer night Elizabeth never knew, and with fear in the first part and watching in the last part of' it, the morning found her really haggard and ill. But Karen was no worse; and not knowing what to think about her, but comforting herself with the hope that at least her danger was not imminent, Elizabeth went to bed, coveting sleep inexpressibly, for its forgetfulness as well as its rest. But sleep was not to be had so promptly.

"Miss 'Lizabeth! --" And there stood Clam before her opening eyes, as fresh and as black as ever, with a clean turban in the last state of smartness.

"What _is_ the matter?"

"Where will you have breakfast? Karen ain't goin' at all at present. Where will you have it?"

"Nowhere."

"Will I clear her out of the kitchen?"

"No! -- let her alone. Mrs. Haye's woman may see to breakfast in her mistress's room -- I don't want anything -- but sleep. Let Karen have and do just what she wants."

"Won't Clam do as much!" -- said the toss of the clean turban as its owner went out of the room. And the issue was, a very nice little breakfast brought to Miss Haye's bed-side in the space of half an hour. Elizabeth was waked up and looked dubious.

"You want it," said her handmaid. "The Governor said you was to take it."

"Is he here!" exclaimed Elizabeth, with an amount of fire in eye and action that, as Clam declared afterwards, "had like to have made her upset everything." But she answered demurely,

"He ain't here just yet. I guess he's comin', though."

Elizabeth's eye went down, and an eye as observant if not so brilliant as her own, watched how the pink tinge rose and mounted in the cheeks as she betook herself to the bread and coffee. "Ain't she eatin' her breakfast like a good child!" said Clam to herself. "_That_ put her down."

And with a "Now you'll sleep --" Clam carried off the breakfast tray, and took care her mistress should have no second disturbance from anybody else. Elizabeth only heard once or twice in the course of the day that nothing was wanted from her; so slept her sleep out.

It was slept out at last, and Elizabeth got up and began to dress. Or rather, took her dressing-comb in hand and planted herself in front of the window, and there forgot what she had to do. It was a fine afternoon of October, late in the day. It was very fair outside. The hills touched here and there in their green with a frost-spot -- yellow, or tawny, or red; the river water lying very calm; and a calm sky over-head; the air as pure as though vapours and mists were refined away for ever. The distant trees of the woodland shewed in round distinct masses of foliage, through such an atmosphere; the rocky shore edge cut sharp against the water; the nearer cedars around the home valley seemed to tell their individual leaves. Here and there in some one of them a Virginia creeper's luxuriant wreaths were colouring with suspicious tokens of crimson. Not in their full brilliancy yet, the trees and the vine-leaves were in fair preparation; and fancy could not imagine them more fair than they looked that afternoon.

"So bright without! -- and so dark within!" -- Elizabeth thought. "When will it end -- or is it only beginning? Such a flood of brightness was over me a little while ago, -- and now, there is one burden in one room, and another in another room, and I myself am the greatest burden of all. Because my life has nothing to look forward to -- in this world -- and heaven is not enough; I want something in this world. -- Yes, I do. -- Yet Winthrop Landholm has nothing more than I have, in this world's things, and he don't feel like me. What is the reason? Why is his face _always_ so at rest, -- so bright -- so strong? Ah, it must be that he is so much better than I! -- he _has_ more, not of this world's things; religion is something to him that it is not to me; he must love his Master far better than I do. -- Then religion might be more to me. -- It shall be -- I will try; -- but oh! if I had never seen another Christian in all my life, how well his single example would make me know that religion is a strong reality. What a reward his will be! I wonder how many besides me he will have drawn to heaven -- he does not dream that he has ever done me any good. Yet it is pleasant to owe so much to him -- and it's bitter! --"

"You'll tire yourself with lookin', Miss 'Lizabeth," said Clam behind her. "Mannahatta ain't so far off as that."

Elizabeth started a little from her fixed attitude and began to handle her dressing-comb.

"'Taint so far folks can't get here, I guess."

"Clam!" -- said her mistress facing about.

"Well, Miss Lizzie --"

"Go and take care of Karen. I don't want you."

"_She_ don't want me," said Clam. "And you've had no dinner."

"Do as I tell you. I shall not have any."

With this spur, Elizabeth was soon dressed, and then walked into Mrs. Haye's room. Rose apparently had had leisure for meditation and had made up her mind upon several things; but her brow changed as her cousin came in.

"Lizzie -- Why you've been up all night, Emma says."

"That's nothing. I have been down all day."

"But what's the matter with this old woman?"

"I don't know. She don't know herself."

"But Emma said she thought she was dying?"

"So she did. I don't know whether she is right or not."

"Dying! -- is she!" said Rose with a little scream.

"I don't know. I hope not, so soon as she thinks. She is no worse to-night."

"But what are you going to do?"

"Nothing -- more than I have done."

"But are you going to stay here?"

"Stay here, Rose! --"

"Yes -- I mean -- who's going to take care of her? And isn't she your cook?"

A curious quick gleam of a laugh passed over Elizabeth's face; it settled graver than before.

"Clam can cook all you and I want."

"But who's going to take care of her?"

"I have sent for help, and for a doctor."

"Haven't you sent for a doctor before! Why Lizzie!"

"I sent early this morning. The messenger had to go a number of miles."

"And isn't there anybody about the house but Clam and Emma?"

"Anderese is here. I sent somebody else."

"What use is an old thing like that about a place?"

Elizabeth was silent. The cloud gathered on Rose's face, and as if that it might not cast its shadow on her cousin, she looked out of the window. Then Clam came in.

"Where'll supper be, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"Is Karen in the kitchen?"

"Oh! -- I won't have tea in there!" said Rose with one of her old little screams.

"Let it be here, Clam."

"What'll it be, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"Anything you please."

"There's nothing in the house to be pleased with," said Clam; "and you've had no dinner."

"Bread and butter and tea -- and boil an egg."

"That would be pleasant," said Clam, capacity and fun shining out of every feature; -- "but Karen's hens don't lay no eggs when she ain't round."

"Bread and butter and tea, then."

"Butter's gone," said Clam.

"Bread and cold meat, then."

"Fresh meat was all eat up days ago; and you and Mis' Haye don't make no 'count of ham."

Elizabeth got up and went out to Anderese and despatched him to Mountain Spring after what forage he could find. Then from a sense of duty went back to her cousin. Rose was looking out of the window again when she came in, and kept silence for a little space; but silence was never Rose's forte.

"Lizzie -- what makes you live in such a place?"

"It was the pleasantest place I could find," said her cousin, with a tone of suppressed feeling.

"It's so lonely!" said Rose.

"It suited me."

"But it isn't safe," said Rose. "What if something happened to you, with nobody about, -- what would you do?"

"It has not been a subject of fear with me," said Elizabeth. "I haven't thought about it."

"Who comes to see you here? anybody?"

"No. Who should come?" said Elizabeth sternly. "Whom should I want to see?"

"Don't you want to see anybody, ever? I do. I don't like to be in a desert so."

Elizabeth was silent, with a set of the lips that told of thoughts at work.

"Doesn't Winthrop Landholm come here?"

"No!"

"I'm not used to it," said Rose whimpering, -- "I can't live so. It makes me feel dreadfully."

"Whom do _you_ want to see, Rose?" said Elizabeth, with an expression that ought to have reminded her companion whom she was dealing with.

"I don't care who -- any one. It's dreadful to live so, and see nothing but the leaves shaking and the river rolling and this great empty place."

"Empty!" said Elizabeth, with again a quick glancing laugh. "Well! -- you are yourself yet! But at any rate the leaves don't shake much to-day."

"They did last night," said Rose. "I was so frightened I didn't know what to do, and with no man in the house either, good for anything -- I didn't sleep a wink till after one o'clock."

"Was your sleep ever disturbed by anything of more importance than the wind?"

"I don't know what you mean," said Rose in tears. "I think you're very unkind! --"

"What would you like me to do, Rose?"

"Let's go away from here."

"Where?"

"I don't care -- to Mannahatta."

"What do you want to do in Mannahatta?"

"Why, nothing, -- what everybody does -- live like other people. I shall die here."

"Is the memory of the best friend you ever had, so little worth, Rose, that you are in a hurry to banish it your company already?"

"I don't know what you mean," said Rose, with one of her old pouts and then bursting into fresh weeping. "I don't know why one should be miserable any more than one can help. I have been miserable enough, I am sure. Oh Lizzie! -- I think you're very unkind! --"

Elizabeth's face was a study; for the fire in her eyes shone through water, and every feature was alive. But her lips only moved to tremble.

"I won't stay here!" said Rose. "I'll go away and do something. I don't care what I do. I dare say there's enough left for me to live upon; and I can do without Emma. I can live somehow, if not quite as well as you do."

"Hush, Rose, and keep a little sense along with you," said Elizabeth.

"There _must_ be enough left for me somehow," Rose went on, sobbing. "Nobody had any right to take my money. It was mine. Nobody else had a right to it. It is mine. I ought to have it."

"Rose! --"

Rose involuntarily looked up at the speaker who was standing before her, fire flashing from eye and lip, like the relations of Queen Gulnare in the fairy story.

"Rose! -- do not dare speak to me in that way! -- ever again! -- whatever else you do. I will leave you to get back your senses."

With very prompt and decided action, Miss Haye sought her rowing gloves in her own room, put them on, and went down to the rocks where the Merry-go-round lay. She stopped not to look at anything; she loosened the boat and pushed out into the water. And quick and smartly the oars were pulled, till the skiff was half way over the river towards Mr. Underhill's house. Suddenly there they stopped. Elizabeth's eyes were bent on the water about two yards from the stern of the boat; while the paddles hung dripping, dripping more and more slowly, at the sides, and the little skiff floated gently up with the tide. But if Elizabeth's eyes were looking into nature, it was her own; her face grew more settled and grave and then sorrowful every minute; and at last the paddle-handles were thrown across the boat and her arms and her head rested upon them. And the little skiff floated gently up stream.

It had got some distance above Mr. Underhill's, when its mistress lifted her head and looked about, with wet eyelashes, to see where she was. Then the boat's head was turned, and some steady pulling brought her to the gravelly beach in front of Mr. Underhill's house. Its owner was luckily there to help her out.

"Well, I declare that's clever of you," said he, as he grasped the bow of the little vessel to draw it further up. "I didn't much expect you'd come when I asked you. Why you can row, real smart."

"I don't see how I am going to get out, Mr. Underhill."

"Step up on there, can't you -- I'll hold her, -- can you jump?" --

"But Mr. Underhill, that's going to do no good to my boat. --"

"What aint? --"

"That gravel -- grating and grinding on it, as the tide makes."

"'Twon't do nothin' -- it'll just stay still so. Well, you go in and speak to mother, and I'll see to her. I didn't know you could row so smart, -- real handsome!"

"I learnt a good while ago," said Elizabeth. "I'll not be gone long, Mr. Underhill."

Up the neglected green slope she ran, wondering at herself the while. What new steps were these, which Miss Haye was not taking for her own pleasure. What a strange visit was this, which her heart shrank from more and more as she neared the house door.

The house was tenanted by sundry younger fry of the feminine gender, of various ages, who met Elizabeth with wonder equal to her own, and a sort of mixed politeness and curiosity to which her experience had no parallel. By the fireside sat the old grandam, very old, and blind, as Elizabeth now perceived she was. Miss Haye drew near with the most utter want of knowledge what to do or say to such a person, -- how to give the pleasure she had come to give. She hoped the mere fact of her coming and presence would do it, for to anything further she felt herself unequal. The old lady looked up curiously, hearing the noise of entering feet and a stranger's among them.

"Will you tell your grandmother who I am," Elizabeth asked, with a shy ignorance how to address her, and an exceeding reluctance to it.

"Grand'ma," said the eldest girl, "here is Miss Haye, -- the young lady from Shahweetah -- she's here."

The old woman turned her sightless eyes towards her visiter, got up and curtseyed.

"Don't do that," said Elizabeth, taking a seat near her. "Mr. Underhill asked me some time ago to come and see his mother."

"I've heerd of ye," said the old woman. "'Siah was over to your place, makin' of a boat, or mendin', or somethin', he telled me. I'm glad to see ye. How did ye come across?"

"In a boat -- in the boat he mended for me."

"Have you got somebody to row ye over?"

"I rowed myself over."

"Why did ye? -- ain't ye afeard? I wouldn't ha' thought! 'Siah said she was a slim handsome girl, as one would see in the country."

"Well, I can row," said Elizabeth colouring; for she had an instant sense that several pairs of eyes _not_ blind were comparing the report with the reality.

"Be you the owner of Shahweetah now?"

"Yes."

"I heerd it was so. And what's become of the old family?"

"They are scattered. Mr. Landholm is gone West, with one of his sons; the others are in different places."

"And the girl is dead, ain't she?"

"Winnie? -- yes."

Elizabeth knew that!

"The mother was gone first -- to a better place. She had a fine lot o' children. Will was a pictur; -- the farmer, he was a fine man too; -- but there was one -- the second boy -- Winthrop, -- he was the flower of the flock, to my thinkin'. I ha'n't seen him this great while. He's been here since I lost my sight, but I thought I could see him when I heerd him speak."

There was silence. Elizabeth did not feel inclined to break it.

"Do you know him, maybe?" the old woman said presently. Winthrop _had_ made himself pleasant there! --

"Yes."

"Is he lookin' as well as he used to?"

"Quite as well, I believe."

"Is he gettin' along well?"

"Yes -- I believe so -- very well."

"Whatever he does 'll prosper, _I_ believe," said Mrs. Underhill; "for the Lord knoweth the way of the righteous. Is that a way you have any knowledge of, young lady?"

"Not much --" said Elizabeth hesitating.

"'Siah says he 'spects you're rich."

"What makes him think so?"

"He says that's what he 'spects. Does the hull Shahweetah farm belong to you?"

"Yes."

"It's a good farm. Who's goin' to take care of it for you?"

"I don't know, yet."

"I 'spose you'll be gettin' married, one of these days, and then there'll be some one to do it for you. Be you handsome, particular, as 'Siah says?"

Elizabeth coloured exceedingly, and a tittering laugh, somewhat boisterous, ran round the group of spectators and listeners, with a murmured "Oh Grand'ma! --"

"Whisht!" -- said the old woman; -- "I'm not talkin' like you. I'm old and blind. I can't see for myself, and I want to know. She can tell me."

"Father telled ye already," said the eldest girl.

"I can tell better from what _she_ says," said Mrs. Underhill, turning her face towards her visiter. "What does she say? Be you uncommon fair and handsome? -- or not more than the common?"

The red deepened on Elizabeth's cheek and brow, but she answered, not without some hesitation,

"I believe -- more than the common."

A little glimpse of a smile stole over the old woman's face.

"Handsome, and rich. Well -- Be you happy too, young lady, above the common?"

"I have learned, ma'am, that that depends upon right-doing; -- so I am not always happy."

"Have you learned that lesson?" said the old woman. "It's a good one. Let me see your hand?"

Elizabeth drew near and gave it.

"It's a pretty hand," -- said the old woman. "It's soft -- it hain't done much work. It feels rich and handsome. Don't you give it to no one who will help you to forget that the blessing of God is better than silver and gold."

"Thank you. I will not."

"Be you a servant of the Lord, young lady?"

"I hope I am, Mrs. Underhill," Elizabeth answered with some hesitation. "Not a good one."

The old woman dropped her hand and fell back in her chair, only saying, for Elizabeth had risen,

"Come and see me again -- I'll be pleased to see ye."

"If I do! --" thought Elizabeth as she ran down to her boat. The free air seemed doubly free. But then came the instant thought, -- "Winthrop Landholm would not have said that. How far I am -- how far! -- from where he stands!" --

She walked slowly down to the water's edge.

"Mr. Underhill," she said as she prepared to spring into the boat which he held for her, -- "I have forgotten, while I was at the house, what I partly came for to-night. We are out of provisions -- have you any eggs, or anything of any kind, to spare?"

"Eggs?" -- said Mr. Underhill, holding the boat, -- "what else would you like along of eggs?"

"Almost anything, that is not salt meat."

"Chickens? -- we've got some o' them."

"Very glad of them indeed, -- or fresh meat."

"Ha'n't got any of that just to-day," said the old farmer shaking his head. "I'll see. The boat won't stir -- tide's makin' yet. You'll have a pull home, I expect."

He went back to the house, and Elizabeth stood waiting, alone with her boat.

There was refreshment and strength to be had from nature's pure and calm face; so very pure and calm the mountains looked down upon her and the river smiled up. The opposite hill-tops shone in the warm clear light of the October setting sun, the more warm and bright for the occasional red and yellow leaves that chequered their green, and many tawny and half turned trees that mellowed the whole mountain side. Such clear light as shone upon them! such unearthly blue as rose above them! such a soft and fair water face that gave back the blue! What could eyes do but look; what could the mind do but wonder, and be thankful; and wonder again, at the beauty, and grow bright in the sunlight, and grow pure in that shadowless atmosphere. The sharp cedar tops on Shahweetah were so many illuminated points, and further down the river the sunlight caught just the deep bend of the water in the bay; the rest was under shadow of the western hills. All was under a still and hush, -- nothing sounded or moved but here and there a cricket; the tide was near flood and crept up noiselessly; the wind blew somewhere else, but not in October. Softly the sun went down and the shadows stole up.

Elizabeth stood with her hands pressed upon her breast, drinking in all the sights and sounds, and many of their soft whisperings that only the spirit catches; when her ear was caught by very dissimilar and discordant notes behind her, -- the screaming of discomposed chickens and the grating of Mr. Underhill's boots on the gravel.

"Here's chickens for ye," said the farmer, who held the legs of two pair in his single hand, the heads of the same depending and screaming in company, -- "and here's three dozen of fresh eggs -- if you want more you can send for 'em. Will you take these along in the Merry-go-round?"

"If you please -- there is no other way," said Elizabeth. "Wait -- let me get in first, Mr. Underhill -- Are they tied so they can't get loose?"

"La! yes," said the old man putting them into the bow of the boat, -- "they can't do nothin'! I'll engage they won't hurt ye. Do you good, if you eat 'em right. Good bye! -- it's pretty nigh slack water, I guess -- you'll go home easy. Come again! -- and you shall have some more fowls to take home with ye!" --

Elizabeth bowed her acknowledgments, and pulled away towards home, over the bright water, wondering again very much at herself and her chickens. The dark barrier of the western hills rose up now before her, darkening and growing more distant -- as she went all the way over the river home. Elizabeth admired them and admired at herself by turns.

Near the landing, however, the boat paused again, and one oar splashed discontentedly in the water and then lay still, while the face of its owner betrayed a struggle of some sort going on. The displeased brow, and the firm-set lips, said respectively, 'I would not,' and 'I must;' and it was five minutes good before the brow cleared up and the lips unbent to their usual full free outline; and the oars were in play once more, and the Merry-go-round brought in and made fast.

"Well, Miss 'Lizabeth!" said Clam who met her at the door, -- "where _have_ you been! Here's Mis' Haye been cryin' and the tea-kettle singing an hour and a half, if it isn't two hours."

"Has Anderese come home?"

"Yes, and supper's ready, and 'taint bad, for Mis' Landholm learned me how to do fresh mutton and cream; and it's all ready. You look as if you wanted it, Miss 'Lizabeth. My! --"

"There are some eggs and chickens down in the boat, Clam"

"In what boat, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"In mine -- down at the rocks."

"Who fetched 'em?"

"I did, from Mr. Underhill's. You may bring them up to the house."

Leaving her handmaid in an excess of astonishment unusual with her, Elizabeth walked into her guest's room, where the table was laid. Rose sat yet by the window, her head in her handkerchief on the window-sill. Elizabeth went up to her.

"Rose --"

"What?" said Rose without moving.

"Rose -- look up at me --"

The pretty face was lifted at her bidding, but it was sullen, and the response was a sullen "Well --"

"I am very sorry I spoke to you so -- I was very wrong. I am very sorry. Forgive me and forget it -- will you?"

"It was very unkind!" -- said Rose, her head going down again in fresh tears.

"It was very unkind and unhandsome. What can I say more, but that I am sorry? Won't you forget it?"

"Of course," said Rose wiping her eyes, -- "I don't want to remember it if you want to forget it. I dare say I was foolish --"

"Then come to supper," said Elizabeth. "Here's the tea -- I'm very hungry."