Chapter IV (9)

I hastily measured the height of the ceilings, and then of the bedstead, and found the latter nearly eighteen inches too high. Then I called Sophronia: the bedstead was of her selection, and was an elegant sample of fine woods and excessive ornamentation. It was a precious bit of furniture, but time was precious, too. The senior truckman suggested that the height of the bedstead might be reduced about two feet by the removal of the most lofty ornament, and that a healthy man could knock it off with his fist.

"Let it be done," said Sophronia. "What matter? A king discrowned is still a king at heart."

The senior truckman aimed a deadly blow with a cart-rung, and the bedstead filled its appointed place. The remaining furniture followed as fast as could be expected; we soon gave up the idea of getting it all into the house; but the woodhouse was spacious and easy of access, so we stowed there important portions of three chamber sets, a gem of a sideboard, the Turkish chair, which had been ordered for the parlor, and the hat-rack, which the hall was too small to hold. We also deposited in the woodhouse all the pictures, in their original packages.

At length the trucks were emptied; the senior truckman smiled sweetly as I passed a small fee into his hand then he looked thoughtfully at the roof of the cottage, and remarked:

"It's none of my business, I know; but I hate to see nice things spiled. I'd watch that roof, ef I was you, the fust time it rained."

I thanked him; he drove off; I turned and accepted the invitation which was presented by Sophronia's outstretched arms.

"Oh, Pierre!" she exclaimed; "at last we are in our own home! No uncongenial spirits about us--no one to molest or annoy--no unsympathetic souls to stifle our ardent passion for Nature and the work of her free, divine hands."

A frowsy head suddenly appeared at the dining-room door, and a voice which accompanied it remarked:

"Didn't they bring in any stove, ma'am?"

Sophronia looked inquiringly at me, and I answered:

"No!" looking very blank at the same time.

"Then how am I to make a fire to cook with?" asked the girl.

"In the range, of course," said Sophronia.

Our domestic's next remark had, at least, the effect of teaching what was her nationality:

"An' do ye think that I'd ax fur a sthove av dhere was a range in the house? Dhivil a bit!"

"Never mind, dear," said I soothingly; "I'm an old soldier; I'll make a fire out of doors, and give you as nice a cup of tea and plate of hot biscuit as you ever tasted. And I'll order a stove the first thing in the morning."

Sophronia consented, and our domestic was appeased. Then I asked the domestic to get some water while I should make the fire. The honest daughter of toil was absent for many moments, and when she returned, it was to report, with some excitement, that there was neither well nor cistern on the premises.

Then I grew angry, and remarked, in Sophronia's hearing, that we were a couple of fools, to take a house without first proving whether the agent had told the truth. But Sophronia, who is a consistent optimist, rebuked me for my want of faith in the agent.

"Pierre," said she, "it is unmanly to charge a fellow-man with falsehood upon the word of a menial. I know that agent tells the truth, for he has such liquid blue eyes; besides, his house is right next to the Presbyterian Church."

Either one of these powerful arguments was sufficient to silence me, of course; so I took the pail, and sought well and cistern myself. But if either was on the place, it was so skillfully secreted that I could not find the slightest outward evidence of it. Finally, to be thorough, I paced the garden from front to rear, over lines not more than ten feet apart, and then scrutinized the fence-corners.

While at this work, I was approached by a gentleman, who seemed to come from a house two or three hundred yards off.

"Moved into the cottage, it seems," said he.

"Yes," I replied. "Do you know the place? The agent said there was excellent water here, but I can't find it."

"He meant there was good water in my well, where all occupants of the cottage have drawn water for several years. The well belonging to your place was covered up when the road was cut through, a few years ago, and neighbor Hubbell--well, _I_ don't say anything against him--neighbors must be neighborly, but folks _do_ say he's too stingy to dig a new well. That's the reason the cottage hasn't been occupied much for the last few years. But everybody is welcome to draw from my well--come along."

I followed the kind-hearted man, but I wished that the liquid depth of the agent's blue eyes had a proper parallel upon the estate which he had imposed upon me. I returned as full of wrath as my pail was of water, when, across the fence, I saw Sophronia's face, so suffused with tender exaltation, that admiration speedily banished ill nature.

But it was for a brief moment only, for Sophronia's finely-cut lips parted and their owner exclaimed:

"Oh, Pierre! What a charming pastoral picture--you and the pail, and the lawn as a background! I wish we might always have to get water from our neighbor's, well."

We retired early, and in the delightful quiet of our rural retreat, with the moon streaming through our chamber window, Sophronia became poetic, and I grew too peaceful and happy even to harbor malice against the agent. The eastern sun found his way through the hemlocks to wake us in the morning, and the effect was so delightfully different from the rising bell of the boarding-house, that when Sophronia indulged in some freedom with certain of Whittier's lines, and exclaimed:

"Sad is the man who never sees
The sun shine through his hemlock trees"

I appreciated her sentiment, and expressed my regard in a, loving kiss. Again I made a fire out of doors, boiled coffee, fried ham and eggs, made some biscuit, begged some milk of our neighbor, and then we had a delightful little breakfast. Then I started for the station.

"Don't forget the stove, dear," said Sophronia, as she gave me a parting kiss; "and be sure to send a butcher, and baker, and grocer, and--"

Just then our domestic appeared and remarked:

"Arah ye may as well get another girl; the likes ai me isn't goin' to bring wather from half-a-mile away."

Sophronia grew pale, but she lost not an atom of her saintly calmness; she only said, half to herself:

"Poor thing! she hasn't a bit of poetry in her soul."

When I returned in the evening, I found Sophronia in tears. The stove men had not quite completed their work, so Sophronia and her assistant had eaten nothing but dry bread since breakfast. The girl interrupted us to say that the stove was ready, but that she couldn't get either coal or wood, and would I just come and see why? I descended five of the cellar stairs, but the others were covered with water, and upon the watery expanse about me floated the wagon-load of wood I had purchased. The coal heap, under a window fifteen feet away, loomed up like a rugged crag of basaltic rock. I took soundings with a stick and found the water was rather more than two feet deep. Fortunately, there were among my war relics a pair of boots as long as the legs of their owner, so I drew these on and descended the stairs with shovel and coal scuttle. The boots had not been oiled in ten years, so they found accommodation for several quarts of water. As I strode angrily into the kitchen and set the scuttle down with a suddenness which shook the floor, Sophronia clapped her hands in ecstasy.

"Pierre," she exclaimed, "you look like the picture of the sturdy retainers of the old English barons. O, I do hope that water won't go away very soon. The rattling of the water in your boots makes your step _so_ impressive."

I found that in spite of the hunger from which she had suffered, Sophronia had not been idle during the day. She had coaxed the baker's man to open the cases of pictures, and she and the domestic had carried each picture to the room in which it was to hang. The highest ceiling in the house was six and a half feet from the floor, whereas our smallest picture measured three feet and a half in height. But Sophronia's art-loving soul was not to be daunted; the pictures being too large to hang, she had leaned them against the walls.

"It's such an original idea," said she; "and then, too, it gives each picture such an unusual effect--don't you think so?"

I certainly did.

We spent the evening in trying to make our rooms look less like furniture warehouses, but succeeded only partly. We agreed, too, that we could find something for painters and kalsominers to do, for the ceilings and walls were blotched and streaked so much that our pretty furniture and carpets only made the plastering look more dingy. But when again we retired, and our lights were put, and only soft moonbeams relieved the darkness, our satisfaction with our new house filled us with pleasant dreams, which we exchanged before sleeping. After falling asleep, I dreamed of hearing a wonderful symphony performed by an unseen orchestra; it seemed as if Liszt might have composed it, and as if the score was particularly strong in trombones and drums. Then the scene changed, and I was on a ship in a storm at sea; the gale was blowing my hair about, and huge rain-drops occasionally struck my face. Sophronia was by my side; but, instead of glorying with me in meeting the storm-king in his home, she complained bitterly of the rain. The unaccountable absence of her constitutional romanticism provoked me, and I remonstrated so earnestly, that the effort roused me to wakefulness. But Sophronia's complaining continued. I had scarcely realized that I was in a cottage chamber instead of on a ship's deck, when Sophronia exclaimed:

"Pierre, I wonder if a shower-bath hasn't been arranged just where our bed stands? because drops of water are falling in my face once in a while. They are lovely and cool, but they trickle off on the pillow, and that don't feel nice."

I lit a candle, and examined the ceiling; directly over Sophronia's head there was a heavy blotch, from the centre of which the water was dropping.

"Another result of taking that liquid blue-eyed agent's word," I growled, hastily moving the bed and its occupant, and setting the basin on the floor to catch the water and save the carpet.

"Why, Pierre!" exclaimed Sophronia, as I blew out the light, "how unjust you are. Who could expect an agent to go over the roof like a cat, and examine each shingle? Gracious! it's dropping here, too!"

Again I lighted the candle and moved the bed, but before I had time to retire Sophronia complained that a stream was trickling down upon her feet. The third time the bed was moved water dropped down upon _my_ pillow, and the room was too small to re-locate the bed so that none of these unauthorized hydrants should moisten us. Then we tried our spare chamber, but that was equally damp.

Suddenly I bethought myself of another war relic; and, hurrying to an old trunk, extracted an india-rubber blanket. This, if we kept very close together, kept the water out, but almost smothered us. We changed our positions by sitting up, back to back, and dropping the rubber blanket over our heads. By this arrangement the air was allowed to circulate freely, and we had some possibilities of conversation left us; but the effect of the weight of the blanket resting largely upon our respective noses was somewhat depressing. Suddenly Sophronia remarked:

"Oh, Pierre! this reminds me of those stories you used to tell me, of how you and all your earthly treasures used to hide under this blanket from the rain!"

The remark afforded an opportunity for a very graceful reply, but four hours elapsed before I saw it. Sophronia did not seem hurt by my negligence, but almost instantly continued:

"It would be just like war, if there was only some shooting going on. Can't you fire your revolver out of the window, Pierre?"

"I could," I replied, "if that blue-eyed agent was anywhere within range."

"Why, Pierre, I think you're dreadfully unjust to that poor man. _He_ can't go sleeping around in all the rooms of each of his cottages every time there's a rainstorm, to see if they leak. Besides--oh, Pierre! I've a brilliant idea! It can't be wet down-stairs."

True. I was so engrossed by different plans of revenge, that I had not thought of going into the parlor or dining-room to sleep. We moved to the parlor; Sophronia took the lounge, while I found the floor a little harder than I supposed an ex-soldier could ever find any plane surface. It did not take me long, however, to learn that the parlor-floor was _not_ a plane surface. It contained a great many small elevations which kept me awake for the remainder of the night, wondering what they could be. At early dawn I was as far from a satisfactory theory as ever, and I hastily loosened one end of the carpet and looked under. The protuberances were knots in the flooring boards. In the days when the sturdy patriots of New Jersey despised such monarchical luxuries as carpets, the soft portions of these boards had been slowly worn away, but the knots--every one has heard the expression "as tough as a pine knot." Fortunately, we had indulged in a frightfully expensive rug, and upon this I sought and found a brief period of repose and forgetfulness.

While we were at the breakfast-table our girl appeared, with red eyes and a hoarse voice, and remarked that now she _must_ leave; she had learned to like us, and she loved the country, but she had an aged parent whose sole support she was, and could not afford to risk her life in such a house.

"Let her go," said Sophronia. "If variety is the spice of life, why shouldn't the rule apply to servants?"

"Perhaps it does, my dear," I replied; "but if we have to pay each girl a month's wages for two or three days of work, the spice will be more costly than enjoyable--eh?"

Immediately after breakfast I sought the agent. I supposed he would meet me with downcast eyes and averted head, but he did nothing of the kind; he extended his hand cordially, and said he was delighted to see me.

"That roof," said I, getting promptly to business, "leaks--well, it's simply a sieve. And you told me the house was dry."

"So the owner told _me_, sir; of course you can't expect us to inspect the hundreds of houses we handle in a year."

"Well, however that may be, the owner is mistaken, and he must repair the roof at once."

The agent looked thoughtful. "If you had wished the landlord to make necessary repairs, you should have so stipulated in the lease. The lease you have signed provides that all repairs shall be made at your own expense."

"Did the landlord draw up the lease?" I asked, fixing my eye severely upon the agent's liquid orbs. But the agent met my gaze with defiance and an expression of injured dignity.

"I asked you whether you would have the usual form of lease," said the agent, "and you replied, 'Certainly.'"

I abruptly left the agent's presence, went to a lumber yard near by, and asked where I could find the best carpenter in town. He happened to be on the ground purchasing some lumber, and to him I made known my troubles, and begged him to hasten to my relief. The carpenter was a man of great decision of character, and he replied promptly, ciphering on a card in the meantime:

"No you don't. Every carpenter in town has tried his hand on that roof, and made it worse than before. The only way to make it tight is to re-shingle it all over. That'll cost you $67.50, unless the scantling is too rotten to hold the nails, in which case the job'll cost you $18.75 more. I guess the rafters are strong enough to hold together a year or two longer."

I made some excuse to escape the carpenter and his dreadful figures, and he graciously accepted it; doubtless the perfect method in which he did it was the result of frequent interviews with other wretched beings who had leased the miserable house which I had taken into my confidence. I determined to plead with the landlord, whose name I knew, and I asked a chance acquaintance on the train if he knew where I could find the proprietor of my house.

"Certainly," said he; "there he is in the opposite seat but one, reading a religious weekly."

I looked; my heart sank within me, and my body sank into a seat. A cold-eyed, hatchet-faced man, from whom not even the most eloquent beggar could hope to coax a penny. Of what use would it be to try to persuade him to spend sixty-seven dollars and fifty cents on something which _I_ had agreed to take care of. _Something_ had to be done, however, so I wasted most of the day in consulting New York roofers. The conclusion of the whole matter was that I spent about thirty dollars for condemned "flies" from "hospital" tents, and had these drawn tightly over the roof. When this was done the appearance of the house was such that I longed for an incendiary who would compel me to seek a new residence; but when Sophronia gazed upon the roof she clapped her hands joyfully, and exclaimed:

"Pierre, it will be _almost_ as nice as living in a tent, to have one on the roof; it _looks_ just the same, you know, until your eyes get down to the edge of it."

There was at least one comfort in living at Villa Valley: the people were very intelligent and sociable, and we soon made many pleasant acquaintances. But they all had something dreadful to suggest about our house. A doctor, who was a remarkably fine fellow, said he would be glad of my patronage, and didn't doubt that he would soon have it, unless I had the cellar pumped out at once. Then Mrs. Blathe, the leader of society in the village, told my wife how a couple who once lived in our cottage always had chills, though no one else at Villa Valley had the remotest idea of what a chill was. The several coal dealers in the village competed in the most lively manner for our custom, and when I mentioned the matter, in some surprise, to my grocer, he remarked that _they_ knew what houses needed most coal to keep them warm the year through, and worked for custom accordingly. A deacon, who was sociable but solemn, remarked that some of his most sweetly mournful associations clustered about our cottage--he had followed several of its occupants to their long homes.

And yet, as the season advanced, and the air was too dry to admit of dampness anywhere, and the Summer breezes blew in the windows and doors whole clouds of perfume from the rank thickets of old-fashioned roses which stood about the garden, we became sincerely attached to the little cottage. Then heavy masses of honeysuckles and vines which were trained against the house, grew dense and picturesque with foliage, and Sophronia would enjoy hours of perfect ecstasy, sitting in an easy-chair under the evergreens and gazing at the graceful outlines of the house and its verdant ornaments.

But the cellar was obdurate. It was pumped dry several times, but no pump could reach the inequalities in its floor, and in August there came a crowd of mosquitoes from the water in these small holes. They covered the ceilings and walls, they sat in every chair, they sang accompaniments to all of Sophronia's songs, they breakfasted, dined, and supped with us and upon us. Sophronia began to resemble a person in the first stages of varioloid, yet that incomparable woman would sit between sunset and dusk, looking, through nearly closed eyes, at the walls and ceiling, and would remark:

"Pierre, when you look at the walls in this way, the mosquitoes give them the effect of being papered with some of that exquisite new Japanese wall-paper, with its quaint spots; don't you think so?"

Finally September came, and with it the equinoctial storm. We lay in bed one night, the wind howling about us, and Sophronia rhapsodising, through the medium of Longfellow's lines, about

"The storm-wind of the Equinox,"

when we heard a terrific crash, and then the sound of a falling body which shook the whole house. Sophronia clasped me wildly and began to pray; but I speedily disengaged myself, lighted a candle, and sought the cause of our disturbance. I found it upon the hall-floor: it was the front-door and its entire casing, both of which, with considerable plaster, lathing, and rotten wood, had been torn from its place by the fury of the storm.

In the morning I sought a printer, with a small but strong manuscript which I had spent the small hours of the night in preparing. It bore this title, "The House I Live In." The printer gave me the proof the same day, and I showed it to the owner of the house the same evening, remarking that I should mail a copy to every resident of Villa Valley, and have one deposited in every Post Office box in New York City. The owner offered to cancel my lease if I would give up my unkind intention, and I consented. Then we hired a new cottage (_not_ from the agent with the liquid blue eyes), and, before accepting it, I examined it as if it were to be my residence to all eternity. Yet when all our household goods were removed, and Sophronia and I took our final departure, the gentle mistress of my home turned regretfully, burst into tears, and sobbed:

"Oh, Pierre! in spite of everything, it _is_ a love of a cottage."

THE BLEIGHTON RIVALS.

The village of Bleighton contained as many affectionate young people as any other place of its size, and was not without young ladies, for the possession of whose hearts two or more young men strove against each other. When, however, allusion was ever made to "the rivals" no one doubted to whom the reference applied: it was always understood that the young men mentioned were those two of Miss Florence Elserly's admirers for whom Miss Elserly herself seemed to have more regard than she manifested toward any one else.

There has always been some disagreement among the young ladies of Bleighton as to Miss Elserly's exact rank among beauties, but there was no possibility of doubt that Miss Elserly attracted more attention than any other lady in the town, and that among her admirers had been every young man among whom other Bleighton ladies of taste would have chosen their life-partners had the power of choosing pertained to their own sex.

The good young men of the village, the successful business men who were bachelors, and the stylish young fellows who came from the neighboring city in the Summer, bowed before Miss Elserly as naturally as if fate, embodied in the person of the lady herself, commanded them.

How many proposals Miss Elserly had received no one knew; for two or three years no one was able to substantiate an opinion, from the young lady's walk and conversation, that she specially preferred any one of her personal acquaintances; but at length it became evident that she evinced more than the interest of mere acquaintanceship in Hubert Brown, the best of the native-born young men of the village.

Mr. Brown was a theological student, but the march of civilization had been such at Bleighton that a prospective shepherd of souls might listen to one of Beethoven's symphonies in a city opera-house without having any sin imputed unto him! Such music-loving inhabitants of Bleighton as listened to one of these symphonies, which was also heard by Mr. Brown and Miss Elserly, noticed that when the young couple exchanged words and glances, Miss Elserly's well-trained features were not so carefully guarded as they usually were in society. Such ladies as had nothing to do, and even a few who were not without pressing demands upon their time, canvassed the probabilities of the match quite exhaustively, and made some prophecies, but were soon confused by the undoubted fact that Miss Elserly drove out a great deal with Major Mailing, the dashing ex-soldier, and successful broker from the city.

The charm of uncertainty being thus added to the ordinary features of interest which pertain to all persons suspected of being in love, made Miss Elserly's affairs of unusual importance to every one who knew the young lady even by sight, and for three whole months "the rivals" were a subject of conversation next in order to the weather. At length there came a day when the case seemed decided. For three days Hubert Brown's face was very seldom seen on the street, and when seen it was longer and more solemn than was required even by that order of sanctity in which theological students desire to live.

Then it was noticed that while Miss Elserly's beauty grew no less in degree, it changed in kind; that she was more than ever seen in the society of the handsome broker, and that the broker's attentions were assiduous. Then it was suspected that Mr. Brown had proposed and been rejected. Ladies who owed calls to Mr. Brown's mother, made haste to pay them, and, as rewards of merit, brought away confirmation of the report. Then, before the gossips had reported the probable engagement of Miss Elserly to Major Mailing, the lady and major made the announcement themselves to their intimate friends, and the news quickly reached every one who cared to hear it.

A few weeks later, however, there circulated very rapidly a story whose foreshadowing could not have been justly expected of the village gossips. The major absented himself for a day or two from his boarding-house, and at a time, too, when numerous gentlemen from the city came to call upon him.

Some of these callers returned hurriedly to the city, evincing by words and looks the liveliest disappointment, while two of them, after considerable private conversation with the proprietress of the house, and after displaying some papers, in the presence of a local justice of the peace, to whom the good old lady sent in her perplexity, took possession of the major's room and made quite free with the ex-warrior's cigars, liquors, and private papers.

Then the city newspapers told how Mr. Malling, a broker of excellent ability and reputation, as well as one of the most gallant of his country's defenders in her hour of need, had been unable to meet his engagements, and had also failed to restore on demand fifteen thousand dollars in United States bonds which had been intrusted to him for safe-keeping. A warrant had been issued for Mr. Malling's arrest; but at last accounts the officers had been unable to find him.

Miss Elserly immediately went into the closest retirement, and even girls whom she had robbed of prospective beaus felt sorry for her. People began to suggest that there might have been a chance for Brown, after all, if he had staid at home, instead of rushing off to the West to play missionary. He owned more property in his own right than the major had misplaced for other people; and though some doubts were expressed as to Miss Elserly's fitness for the position of a minister's wife, the matter was no less interesting as a subject for conversation. The excellence of the chance which both Brown and Miss Elserly had lost seemed even greater when it became noised abroad that Brown had written to some real estate agents in the village that, as he might want to go into business in the West, to sell for him, for cash, a valuable farm which his father had left him. As for the business which Mr. Brown proposed entering, the reader may form his own opinions from a little conversation hereinafter recorded.

As Hubert Brown, trying to drown thought and do good, was wandering through a Colorado town one evening, he found himself face to face with Major Mailing. The major looked seedy, and some years older than he did a month before, but his pluck was unchanged. Seeing that an interview could not be avoided, he assumed an independent air, and exclaimed:

"Why, Brown, what did you do that you had to come West?"

"Nothing," said the student, flushing a little--"except be useless."

"I thought," said the major, quickly, with a desperate but sickly attempt at pleasantry, "that you had gone in for Florence again; she's worth all your 'lost sheep of the house of Israel.'"

"I don't make love to women who love other men," replied Brown.

"Don't, please, Brown," said the major, turning manly in a moment. "I feel worse about her than about all my creditors or those infernal bonds. I got into the snarl before I knew her; that's the only way I can quiet my conscience. Of course the--matter is all up now. I wrote her as good an apology as I could, and a release; she'd have taken the latter without my giving it, but--"

"No she wouldn't," interrupted the student.

"How do you know?" demanded the major, with a suspicious glance, which did not escape Brown. "Did you torment her by proposing again upon the top of her other troubles?"

"No," said Brown; "don't be insulting. But I know that she keeps herself secluded, and that her looks and spirits are dreadfully changed. If she cared nothing for you, she knows society would cheerfully forgive her if she were to show it."

"I wish to Satan that I hadn't met _you_, then," said the major. "I've taken solid comfort in the thought that most likely she was again the adored of all adorers, and was forgetting me, as she has so good a right to do."

"Major," said Brown, bringing his hand down on the major's shoulder in a manner suggestive of a deputy sheriff, "you ought to go back to that girl!"

"And fail," suggested the major. "Thank you; and allow me to say you're a devilish queer fellow for suggesting it. Is it part of your religion to forgive a successful rival?"

"It's part of my religion, when I love, to love the woman more than I love myself," said Brown, with a face in which pain and earnestness strove for the mastery. "She loves you. I loved her, and want to see her happy."

The defaulter grasped the student's hand.

"Brown," said he, "you're one of God's noblemen; _she_ told me so once, but I didn't imagine then that I'd ever own up to it myself. It can't be done, though; she can't marry a man in disgrace--I can't ask a woman to marry me on nothing; and, besides, there's the matter of those infernal bonds. I _can't_ clear that up, and keep out of the sheriff's fingers."

"I can," said Brown.

"How?" asked the ex-broker, with staring eyes.

"I'll lend the money."

The major dropped Brown's hand.

"You heavenly lunatic!" said he. "I always _did_ think religion made fools of men when they got too much of it. Then I could go back on the Street again; the boys would be glad to see me clear myself--not meeting my engagements wouldn't be remembered against me. But, say--borrow money from an old rival to make myself right with the girl _he_ loved! No, excuse me. I've got _some_ sense of honor left!"

"You mean you love yourself more than you do her," suggested Brown. "I'll telegraph about the money, and you write her in the meantime. Don't ruin her happiness for life by delay or trifling."

The major became a business man again.

"Brown," said he, "I'll take your offer; and, whatever comes of it, you'll have one friend you can swear to as long as I live. You haven't the money with you?"

"No," said Brown; "but you shall have it in a fortnight. I'll telegraph about it, and go East and settle the business for you, so you can come back without fear."

"You're a trump; but--don't think hard of me--money's never certain till you have it in hand. I'll write and send my letter East by you; when the matter's absolutely settled, you can telegraph _me_, and mail her my letter. I'd expect to be shot if I made such a proposal to any other rival, but you're not a man--you're a saint. Confound you, all the sermons I ever heard hadn't as much real goodness in them as I've heard the last ten minutes! But 'twould be awful for me to write and then have the thing slip up!"

Brown admitted the justice of the major's plan, and took the major to his own hotel to keep him from bad company.

During the whole evening the major talked about business: but when, after a night of sound sleep, the student awoke, he found the major pacing his room with a very pale face, and heard him declare that he had not slept a wink.

Brown pitied the major in his nervous condition and did what he could to alleviate it. He talked to him of Florence Elserly, of whom he seemed never to tire of talking; he spoke to him of his own work and hopes. He tried to picture to the major the happy future which was awaiting him but still the major was unquiet and absent-minded. Brown called in a physician, to whom he said his friend was suffering from severe mental depression, brought on by causes now removed; but the doctor's prescriptions failed to have any effect. Finally, when Brown was to start for the East the major, paler and thinner than ever, handed him a letter addressed to Miss Elserly.

"Brown," said the major, "I believe you won't lose any money by your goodness. I _can_ make money when I am not reckless, and I'll make it my duty to be careful until you are paid. The rest I _can't_ pay, but I'm going to try to be as good a man as you are. That's the sort of compensation that'll please such an unearthly fellow best, I guess."

When Hubert Brown reached Bleighton, he closed with the best offer that had been made for his farm, though the offer itself was one which made the natives declare that Hubert Brown had taken leave of his senses. Then he settled with the loser of the bonds, saw one or two of the major's business acquaintances, and prepared the way for the major's return; then he telegraphed the major himself. Lastly, he dressed himself with care and called upon Miss Elserly. Before sending up his card, he penciled upon it "_avec nouvelles a lire_," which words the servant scanned with burning curiosity, but of which she could remember but one, when she tried to repeat them to the grocer's young man, and this one she pronounced "arick," as was natural enough in a lady of her nationality. This much of the message was speedily circulated through the town, and caused at least one curious person to journey to a great library in the city in quest of a Celtic dictionary. As for the recipient of the card, she met her old lover with a face made more than beautiful by the conflicting emotions which manifested themselves in it. The interview was short. Mr. Brown said he had accidentally met the major and had successfully acted as his agent in relieving him from his embarrassments. He had the pleasure of delivering a letter from the major, and hoped it might make Miss Elserly as happy to receive it as it made him to present it. Miss Elserly expressed her thanks, and then Mr. Brown said:

"Pardon a bit of egotism and reference to an unpleasant subject, Miss Elserly, Once I told you that I loved you; in this matter of the major's, I have been prompted solely by a sincere desire for your happiness; and by acting in this spirit I have entirely taken the pain out of my old wound. Mayn't I, therefore, as the major's most sincere well-wisher, enjoy once more your friendship?"

Miss Elserly smiled sweetly, and extended her hand, and Hubert Brown went home a very happy man. Yet, when he called again, several evenings later, he was not as happy as he had hoped to be in Miss Elserly's society, for the lady herself, though courteous and cordial, seemed somewhat embarrassed and _distrait_, and interrupted the young man on several occasions when he spoke in commendation of some good quality of the major's. Again he called, and again the same strange embarrassment, though less in degree, manifested itself. Finally, it disappeared altogether, and Miss Elserly began to recover her health and spirits. Even then she did not exhibit as tender an interest in the major as the student had hoped she would do; but, as the major's truest friend, he continued to sound his praises, and to pay Miss Elserly, in the major's stead, every kind of attention he could devise.

Finally he learned that the major was in the city, and he hastened to inform Miss Elserly, lest, perhaps, she had not heard so soon. The lady received the announcement with an exquisite blush and downcast eyes, though she admitted that the major had himself apprised her of his safe arrival. On this particular evening the lady seemed to Mr. Brown to be personally more charming than ever; yet, on the other hand, the old embarrassment was so painfully evident that Mr. Brown made an early departure. Arrived at home he found a letter from the major which read as follows:

"MY DEAR OLD FELLOW.--From the day on which I met you in Colorado I've been trying to live after your pattern; how I succeeded on the third day, you may guess from inclosed, which is a copy of a letter I sent to Florence by you. I've only just got her permission to send it to you, though I've teased her once a week on the subject. God bless you, old fellow. Don't worry on my account, for I'm really happy. Yours truly,

"MALLING."

With wondering eyes Hubert Brown read the inclosure, which read as follows:

"Miss ELSERLY--Three days ago, while a fugitive from justice, yet honestly loving you more than I ever loved any other being, I met Hubert Brown. He has cared for me as if I was his dearest friend; he is going to make good my financial deficiencies, and restore me to respectability. He cannot have done this out of love for _me_, for he knows nothing of me but that which should make him hate me, on both personal and moral grounds. He says he did it because he loved you, and because he wants to see you happy. Miss Elserly, such love cannot be a thing of the past only, and it is so great that in comparison with it the best love that _I_ have ever given you seems beneath your notice. He is begging me to go back for your sake; he is constantly talking to me about you in a tone and with a look that shows how strong is the feeling he is sacrificing, out of sincere regard for you. Miss Elserly, I never imagined the angels loving as purely and strongly as he does. He tells me you still retain some regard for me; the mere thought is so great a comfort that I cannot bear to reason seriously about it; yet, if any such feelings exist, I must earnestly beg of you, out of the sincere and faithful affection I have had for you, to give up all thought of me for ever, and give yourself entirely to that most incomparable lover, Hubert Brown.

"Forgive my intrusion and advice. I give it because the remembrance of our late relations will assure you of the honesty and earnestness of my meaning. I excuse myself by the thought that to try to put into such noble keeping the dearest treasure that I ever possessed, is a duty which justifies my departure from any conventional rule. I am, Miss Elserly, as ever, your worshiper. More than this I cannot dare to think of being, after my own fall and the overpowering sense I have of the superior worth of another. God bless you.

"ANDREW MALLING."

Mr. Brown hastily laid the letter aside, and again called upon Miss Elserly.

Again she met him with many signs of the embarrassment whose cause he now understood so well; yet as he was about to deliver an awkward apology a single look from under Miss Elserly's eyebrows--only a glance, but as searching and eloquent as it was swift--stopped his tongue. He took Miss Elserly's hand in his own and stammered:

"I came to plead for the major."

"And I shan't listen to you," said she, raising her eyes with so tender a light in them that Hubert Brown immediately hid the eyes themselves in his heart, lest the light should be lost.

BUDGE AND TODDIE AT AUNT ALICE'S.

[_The following is quoted, by permission, from Mr. Habberton's popular book_, "OTHER PEOPLE'S CHILDREN," _published by_ G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS, _New York_.]

Mrs. Burton's birthday dawned brightly, and it is not surprising that, as it was her first natal anniversary since her marriage to a man who had no intention or ability to cease being a lover--it is not surprising that her ante-breakfast moments were too fully and happily occupied to allow her to even think of two little boys who had already impressed upon her their willingness and general ability to think for themselves. As for the young men themselves, they awoke with the lark, and with a heavy sense of responsibility also. The room of Mrs. Burton's chambermaid joined their own, and the occupant of that room having been charged by her mistress with the general care of the boys between dark and daylight, she had gradually lost that faculty for profound slumber which so notably distinguishes the domestic servant from all other human beings. She had grown accustomed to wake at the first sound in the boys' room, and on the morning of her mistress's birthday the first sound she heard was: "Tod!"

No response could be heard; but a moment later the chambermaid heard:

"T--o--o--od!"

"Ah--h--h--ow!" drawled a voice, not so sleepily but it could sound aggrieved.

"Wake up, dear old Toddie, budder--it's Aunt Alice's birthday now."

"Needn't bweak my earzh open, if '_tis,_ whined Toddie."

"I only holloed in _one_ ear, Tod," remonstrated Budge "an' you ought to love dear Aunt Alice enough to have _that_ hurt a little rather than not wake up."

A series of groans, snarls, whines, grunts, snorts, and remonstrances semi-articulate were heard, and at length some complicated wriggles and convulsive kicks were made manifest to the listening ear, and then Budge said:

"_That's_ right; now let's get up an' get ready. Say; do you know that we didn't think anything about having some music. Don't you remember how papa played the piano last mamma's birthday when she came down stairs, an' how happy it made her, an' we danced around?"

"Aw wight," said Toddie. "Let's."

"_Tell_ you what," said Budge, "let's _both_ bang the piano, like mamma an' Aunt Alice does together sometimes."

"Oh, yesh!" exclaimed Toddie. "We can make some awful _big_ bangsh before she can get down to tell us to don't."

Then there was heard a scurrying of light feet as the boys picked up their various articles of clothing from the corners, chairs, bureau, table, etc., where they had been tossed the night before. The chambermaid hurried to their assistance, and both boys were soon dressed. A plate containing bananas, and another with the hard-earned grapes, were on the bureau, and the boys took them and tiptoed down the stair and into the drawing-room.

"Gwacious!" said Toddie, as he placed his plate on the sideboard, "maybe the gwapes an' buttonanoes has got sour. I guesh we'd better try 'em, like mamma does the milk on hot morningsh when the baddy milkman don't come time enough," and Toddie suited the action to the word by plucking from a cluster the handsomest grape in sight. "I _fink_," said he, smacking his lips with the suspicious air of a professional wine-taster; "I fink they _is_ gettin' sour." "Let's see," said Budge.

"No," said Toddie, plucking another grape with one hand while with the other he endeavored to cover his gift. "Ize bid enough to do it all myself. Unless," he added, as a happy inspiration struck him, "you'll let me help see if your buttonanoes are sour."

"Then you can only have one bite," said Budge, "You must let me taste about six grapes, 'cause 'twould take that many to make one of _your_ bites on a banana."

"Aw wight," said Toddie; and the boys proceeded to exchange duties, Budge taking the precaution to hold the banana himself, so that his brother should not abstractedly sample a second time, and Toddie doling out the grapes with careful count.

"They _are_ a little sour," said Budge, with a wry face. "Perhaps some other bunch is better. I think we'd better try each one, don't you?"

"An' each one of the buttonanoes, too," suggested Toddie. "_That_ one wazh pretty good, but maybe some of the others isn't."

The proposition was accepted, and soon each banana had its length reduced by a fourth, and the grape-clusters displayed a fine development of wood. Then Budge seemed to realize that his present was not as sightly as it might be, for he carefully closed the skins at the ends, and turned the unbroken ends to the front as deftly as if he were a born retailer of fruit.

This done, he exclaimed: "Oh! we want our cards on em, else how will she know who they came from?"

"We'll be here to tell her," said Toddie.

"Huh!" said Budge; "That wouldn't make her half so happy. Don't you know how when cousin Florence gets presents of flowers, she's always happiest when she's lookin' at the card that comes with 'em?"

"Aw right," said Toddie, hurrying into the parlor,'and returning with the cards of a lady and gentleman, taken haphazard from his aunt's card-receiver.

"Now, we must write 'Happy Birthday' on the backs of 'em," said Budge, exploring his pockets, and extracting a stump of a lead-pencil. "Now," continued Budge, leaning over the card, and displaying all the facial contortions of the unpracticed writer, as he laboriously printed, in large letters, speaking, as he worked, a letter at a time:

"H--A--P--P--E B--U--R--F--D--A--Happy Birthday. Now, you must hold the pencil for yours, or else it won't be so sweet--that's what mamma says."

Toddie took the pencil in his pudgy hand, and Budge guided the hand; and two juvenile heads touched each other, and swayed, and twisted, and bobbed in unison until the work was completed.

"Now, I think she ought to come," said Budge. (Breakfast time was still more than an hour distant.) "Why, the rising-bell hasn't rung yet! Let's ring it!"

The boys fought for possession of the bell; but superior might conquered, and Budge marched up and down the hall, ringing with the enthusiasm and duration peculiar to the amateur.

"Bless me!" exclaimed Mrs. Burton, hastening to complete her toilet. "How time does fly--sometimes!"

Mr. Burton saw something in his wife's face that seemed to call for lover-like treatment; but it was not without a sense of injury that he exclaimed, immediately after, as he drew forth his watch:

"I declare! I would make an affidavit that we hadn't been awake half an hour. Ah! I forgot to wind up my watch last night."

The boys hurried into the parlor.

"I hear 'em trampin' around!" exclaimed Budge, in great excitement. "There!--the piano's shut! Isn't that _too_ mean! Oh, _I'll_ tell you--here's Uncle Harry's violin."

"Then whatsh _I_ goin' to play on?" asked Toddie, dancing frantically about.

"Wait a minute," said Budge, dropping the violin, and hurrying to the floor above, from which he speedily returned with a comb. A bound volume of the _Portfolio_ lay upon the table, and opening this, Badge tore the tissue paper from one of the etchings and wrapped the comb in it.

"There!" said he, "you fiddle an' I'll blow the comb. Goodness! why _don't_ they come down? Oh, we forgot to put pennies under the plate, and we don't know how many years old to put 'em for."

"An' we ain't got no pennies," said Toddie.

"_I_ know," said Budge, hurrying to a cabinet in a drawer of which his uncle kept the nucleus of a collection of American coinage. "This kind of pennies," Budge continued, "isn't so pretty as our kind, but they're bigger, an' they'll look better on a table-cloth. Now, how old do you think she is?"

"I dunno," said Toddie, going into a reverie of hopeless conjecture. "She's about as big as you and me put togevver."

"Well," said Budge, "you're four an' I'm six, an' four an' six is ten--I guess ten'll be about the thing."

Mrs. Burton's plate was removed, and the pennies were deposited in a circle. There was some painful counting and recounting, and many disagreements, additions and subtractions. Finally, the pennies were arranged in four rows, two of three each and two of two each, and Budge counted the threes and Toddie verified the twos; and Budge was adding the four sums together, when footsteps were heard descending the stairs.

Budge hastily dropped the surplus coppers upon the four rows, replaced the plate, and seized the comb as Toddie placed the violin against his knee, as he had seen small, itinerant Italians do. A second or two later, as the host and hostess entered the dining-room, there arose a sound which caused Mrs. Burton to clap her fingers to her ears, while her husband exclaimed:

'"Scat!"

Then both boys dropped their instruments, Toddie finding the ways of his own feet seriously compromised by the strings of the violin, while both children turned happy faces toward their aunt, and shouted:

"Happy Burfday!"

Mr. Burton hurried to the rescue of his darling instrument while his wife gave each boy an appreciative kiss, and showed them a couple of grateful tears. Then her eye was caught by the fruit on the sideboard, and she read the cards aloud:

"Mrs. Frank Rommery--this is like her effusiveness. I've never met her but once, but I suppose her bananas must atone for her lack of manners. Why, Charley Crewne! Dear me! What memories some men have!"

A cloud came upon Mr. Burton's brow. Charlie Crewne had been one of his rivals for Miss Mayton's hand, and Mrs. Burton was looking a trifle thoughtful, and her husband was as unreasonable as newly-made husbands are sure to be, when Mrs. Burton exclaimed:

"Some one has been picking the grapes off in the most shameful manner. Boys!"

"_Ain't_ from no Rommerys an' Crewnes," said Toddie. "Theysh from me an' Budge, an' we dzust tasted 'em to see if they'd got sour in the night."

"Where did the cards come from?" asked Mrs. Burton.

"Out of the basket in the parlor," said Budge; "but the back is the nice part of 'em."

Mrs. Burton's thoughtful expression and her husband's frown disappeared together, as they seated themselves at the table. Both boys wriggled rigorously until their aunt raised her plate, and then Budge exclaimed:

"A penny for each year, you know."

"Thirty-one!" exclaimed Mrs. Burton, after counting the heap. "How complimentary!"

"What doesh you do for little boys on your bifeday?" asked Toddie, after breakfast was served. "Mamma does _lots_ of fings."

"Yes," said Budge, "she says she thinks people ought to get their own happy by makin' other people happy. An' mamma knows better than you, you know, 'cause she's been married longest."

Although Mrs. Burton admitted the facts, the inference seemed scarcely natural, and she said so.

"Well--a--a--a--a--_any_how," said Toddie, "mamma always has parties on her bifeday, an' we hazh all the cake we want."

"You shall be happy to-day, then," said Mrs. Burton; "for a few friends will be in to see me this afternoon, and I am going to have a nice little lunch for them, and you shall lunch with us, if you will be very good until then, and keep yourselves clean and neat."

"Aw wight," said Toddie. "Izhn't it most time now?"

"Tod's all stomach," said Budge, with some contempt. "Say, Aunt Alice, I hope you won't forget to have some fruit-cake. That's the kind _we_ like best."

"You'll come home very early, Harry?" asked Mrs. Burton, ignoring her nephew's question.